


Priceless

by handwrittenhello



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood Loss, But he deserves it, Canon-Typical Violence, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Developing Relationship, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Needles, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Solitary Confinement, Torture, Valdo Marx Being an Asshole, Vomiting, Whump, Young Jaskier | Dandelion, see individual chapter notes for detailed warnings, the coast (TM)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: Jaskier was cursed as a child; when spilled, his blood turns to rubies and his tears turn to diamonds. When his secret is discovered, Geralt must save him from those who would take advantage of it. Together they work to break the curse, but the cost might end up being too steep.--Written for the Witcher Big Bang, with art by CBlue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 94
Kudos: 630
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here! I've been working on this bad boy for about four months. A thousand thousand thanks to [CobaltCephalopod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltCephalopod/pseuds/CobaltCephalopod) (squidpro-quo on tumblr) for betaing. This fic wouldn't be what it is without them!
> 
> Fantastic art done by [CBlue](https://corancoranthemagicalman.tumblr.com/). She did an absolutely incredible job, especially on such short notice! Go give her love!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mild blood, child abuse

Jaskier is only three days old when he’s cursed. 

He’s called Julian then, by a rich and powerful mother and father who are more concerned about politics than family. They throw a ball to celebrate the birth of a new heir, though truth be told, it’s more of an excuse to rub elbows with fellow rich and powerful people of the land. 

There are also several local mages present (what mage would miss a celebration on this scale?). The count and countess are aware of the trouble they could spell, but also fear the trouble that could follow from _not_ inviting them. 

Between the lavish party, the rowdy guests, and the newborn baby, the hall rings loud with noise. The countess, only three days into her new role as a mother and hating every second of it, barely spares her baby a second glance as he wails, throwing back yet another glass of wine. “Will somebody _please_ make him stop?” she begs, perhaps a few too many shades past tipsy than is appropriate for a hostess. “All he does is cry! No matter what I do, useless tears, all day long!” 

Perhaps she should have chosen her words more carefully. A nearby sorceress hears her plea and forms a plan. One that will hopefully bring the poor boy something good, while also promising spiteful deceit to those who would mistreat him. 

As the party winds down and guests begin to trickle away or pass out in their chairs, the sorceress remains clear-headed, watching the boy. As he, too, falls asleep from the late hour, she weaves her enchantments, then departs without a word. 

\--

The young Julian grows like the weeds he is so fond of, going from infant to toddling tot in seemingly the blink of an eye. He can often be found running around the gardens, chasing insects or pulling up grass in wide-eyed fascination. 

The countess is usually too busy to watch him, instead trusting various servants to feed, entertain, and teach him. Today it’s Anja, the cook’s assistant, who accompanies Julian to the courtyard. She’s distracted; lately the butcher’s daughter has been coming round for deliveries, and she’s trying to catch her eye, maybe draw her in for a conversation. 

She doesn’t notice Julian, fascinated by a butterfly fluttering past, chase after it on clumsy legs. He’s surprisingly quick for his age, and before Anja even knows it he’s on the opposite end of the courtyard, too close to the raspberry bushes that line the wall. 

He stumbles over a loose stone and trips, falling straight into the brambles of the raspberry bushes. Anja comes running at the sound of his scream. 

He thrashes, only succeeding in getting himself more ensnared in the branches. Blood wells up from the many scratches on his arms, legs, and face. 

“Julian! Oh no, Julian, honey, stop moving, you’re making it worse—” Anja frets, reaching in and pulling him out from the hopeless entanglement he’s found himself in. 

He’s crying, now, the kind of full-blown wailing that comes from a child in pain and shocked over it. Anja gently sets him down on the cobblestones and inspects his cuts. 

Most are only bleeding sluggishly, and will probably only need to be washed, but a few are deep, blood dripping more steadily onto the ground. Bandages, then, she’ll need water, soap, and bandages, and maybe a sweet bun to stop the crying—

Her thoughts are interrupted as she catches a closer glimpse of the blood dotting the pavement. It isn’t blood at all; it catches the light strangely, glinting in the sunlight, and Anja realizes that the ground around Julian is littered with rubies, tiny ones. She watches in amazement as another drop of blood falls from his arm, hitting the ground with a soft _plink_ as it crystallizes. 

Julian is momentarily forgotten as Anja stares at the rubies. Is it magic? It must be; nobody _bleeds_ rubies. Anja’s grandmother used to warn her about magic— “Never trust anything that doesn’t come from nature herself,” she would say. “Naught lies down that path but madness and fantasy.”

Still, she is tempted. Even just one of these rubies would be more than a month’s wages for her; with this many, she would never have to work another day in her life. She quickly gathers up all the rubies she can fit in her skirts, and only then does she turn back to Julian. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you fixed up.”

She picks him up, and they head back inside; Anja is careful to take hallways she knows will be empty at this time of day, lest anyone see the treasure she carries. 

She leaves Julian with the cook, and goes to pack her things. Julian, as well as the rest of the inhabitants of Lettenhove, never see her again. 

\--

The second time it happens, it is a summer morning, and Julian, now a precocious child of nine years, is doing something he isn’t supposed to. 

This isn’t unusual, per se; it’s so _boring_ being stuck inside every day, forced to listen as his tutor, Master Lukasz, drones on and on about politics and court procedure, how one should greet what’s-his-name, king of so-and-so. 

No, Julian would much rather be reading outside in the garden, or down in the kitchen with Marlene, or in his rooms practicing his music. So he sneaks out when he’s supposed to be taking notes on a chapter of some dull historiography.

Again, this isn’t out of the ordinary; what _is_ unordinary is that his father is home early from a hunt. He takes some local lords, barons or somesuch, out with him every week, and they all traipse around the woods on their horses looking very important until the hunters come back with the dogs and a quail or two they’ve caught. 

Today, however, he isn’t deep in the woods; he’s right here, right now, and Julian stands frozen in the hall directly in front of him. Julian doesn’t know many curse words, but all he does are running through his mind now. 

He tries distraction first. “Hello, father! My, you're home early. The hunt must have gone well! What was it this time, quail again? A fox? A deer, maybe? That would be grand, wouldn’t it? Imagine taking down a whole deer!”

“Julian!” his father booms. So much for distraction.

He tries lying next. “It’s alright, really, Master Lukasz said we were done for the day, since he wants me to focus on my music lessons more. He says it’s important for me to be well-rounded for when I grow up.” Master Lukasz said no such thing, but Julian knows that the more details he throws in, the more believable the lie becomes. 

“Did he, now? Well then, I suppose you won’t mind if I go upstairs and discuss your progress with him,” his father rumbles. Julian pales. 

His father begins to climb the staircase, but is interrupted by Master Lukasz thundering down the stairs, shouting. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, you get back upstairs right this instant, or so help me Melitele, you’ll never have another music lesson as long as I live!” His father turns and glowers at him. 

Julian swallows heavily. There’s no getting out of this one. He only hopes that his punishment won’t be too harsh; what would he do if, gods forbid, they take away his music lessons? Or, even worse, his lute?

His father leaves him in suspense as he grabs Julian roughly by the arm, dragging him down the hall towards his study. 

“Father, you're hurting me,” Julian complains quietly, trying in vain to tug his arm out of his father’s grip. He’s getting worried now; rarely is his father this angry, or this physical. 

His father shuts the door behind them, throwing Julian into a chair and stalking over to his desk. He leans over his desk, facing the window. Julian has no idea what his expression looks like right now, can only see shoulders set in an angry line. 

For the first time, Julian thinks twice before speaking. He sits in silence, nervously picking at a loose thread on his shirt, not daring to move. 

“Have you any idea of the sorts of responsibilities I have, as count of these lands?” he eventually asks. “I have been graced these duties by honor of the king. It is hard work, and yet, I persist.”

Julian has heard many times of the kinds of duties he can expect to inherit one day. Not one of them sounds remotely interesting, or even bearable. 

His father continues. “All I can hope for is to leave a good legacy, Julian. That means I must fulfill my obligations to the best of my ability, and leave behind a competent heir to continue our important work. So why is it—” he pauses, finally turning to look squarely at Julian—oh no, his gaze is absolutely _furious,_ eyes icy steel—and punctuates each word with a step forward, “—why is it that you must sabotage me so?” 

Now he is looming over Julian, who hopelessly tries to shrink back further into the chair. “You disrespect me, you disrespect Master Lukasz, and you disrespect this household with your actions!”

“Father, I didn’t think—” he desperately tries to stammer some sort of excuse. 

“Exactly, you didn’t think! You never think of the consequences of your actions—have I really raised such a thoughtless, rash, irresponsible son? At this rate, you will never be ready to take my place!” He is shouting, and it makes something inside of Julian abruptly flip, turning fear into hot anger.

“Well maybe I don’t want to be a count! It’s boring and stupid and I hate learning about it!” he shouts, fists balling up. 

A moment passes, and the next thing Julian knows is that his ears are ringing and his cheek is on fire. He raises a hand to his face and is surprised to feel raised welts on his face where his father’s rings struck. His father has _never_ raised a hand against him before. He feels his eyes begin to well up with tears.

“Don’t you _ever_ say something like that again,” his father snarls. “I don’t want to hear another word of complaint out of you! You will go upstairs and apologize to Master Lukasz for being a lying, disobedient brat, and by the gods, you will stop this shameful crying!”

He can’t help it, now; his father’s words hurt more than the slap. Tears fall faster down his face. His father sees this, and delivers another ringing blow; this time, Julian can feel his lip split as he tastes iron. 

He can’t take it anymore. He runs.

He runs out of the study, down the hallway, vision blurry. He finally makes it to his mother’s sitting room, the only place he can think of to hide. There are plenty of overstuffed armchairs he can crouch behind while he waits for his father to calm down.

The door bangs against the wall as he flies into the room, but he stops dead almost as soon as he enters. His mother is at her desk, engrossed in a novel, but her gaze flies up to him in alarm. 

“Julian,” she murmurs. “What happened?”

He flings himself at her, sobbing harder by simple virtue of her presence. She’s never been the best at providing comfort, but in this moment he doesn’t care. 

He finds himself on her lap, which he’s a little too old for, but again, he doesn’t care. He shakes apart in her arms, and it seems like hours pass before his tears dry up. He pulls back, abruptly feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. 

“Oh, your poor face,” she croons as she finally gets a good look at him. He licks his lips, remembering the taste of blood on them, and regrets it when he feels the tender scab split open again. “Stop that,” she chides, watching the blood drip down his chin to fall on the floor. “Come here, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

She lifts him awkwardly off her lap and gathers her skirts, moving to summon a servant to bring water and cloths. Julian bends down to pick up the book she dropped, heedless of the blood that splashes down onto the wooden floor beneath. 

Something isn’t right; he watches as the drops transform before his eyes into shining gems that bounce where they fall. He picks one up, feels its weight in his palm. 

“What do you have there?”

He jumps, startled by his mother’s voice behind him. His fingers uncurl to show her the gleaming red ruby in his hand, and her eyes widen. “Where did you get that?” she asks, astonished. 

“I don’t know, it—it came from me. From my lip,” he stammers, unsure how to explain what he just saw. “It was dripping, and then it…turned into this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” his mother scolds, but she doesn’t look angry, she looks… shocked, but pleased? 

“Maybe it’s magic?” he offers up. In all the ballads and songs, whenever the hero finds himself with an unexplained ability, it’s usually the work of witches and sorcerers. Then again, whenever they find some kind of treasure, it’s usually cursed, so. Maybe he shouldn’t have touched it. 

He drops it then, because no way does he want to get turned into a frog or something equally slimy. 

His mother picks it up, then cups his face. “Let me see,” she says, pinching his lip sharply so that more blood wells to the surface.

“Ow,” he complains, but watches wide-eyed as his blood once again crystallizes into a hard, red gem. His mother picks this one up as well.

Julian gently holds the back of his hand to his lip, bleeding anew now. The sting fades into a dull throb as minutes pass with his mother examining the two gems in her hand. She then crosses the room to the bookshelf against the wall, pulling free an old leather-bound book that coughs dust into the air when she opens it.

She’s so engrossed in looking something up, she doesn’t seem to notice a cut slowly opening on her bottom lip, mirroring the one on Julian’s.

“Mama, your lip,” he says, pointing. A drop falls onto the page, and she snaps the book closed.

“It always comes with a price,” she mutters, dabbing at her lip with a handkerchief.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, dear, that you mustn’t let anyone know about this. They’ll hurt you, if they ever find out, or you could end up hurting them.”

He doesn’t want that. One time he accidentally hurt the cat when he stepped on its tail and he felt bad about it for days. If anyone got hurt because of him, because of his magic, he would probably feel guilty _forever._

“Okay,” he agrees. He can keep a secret. 

\--

The countess sees Julian’s reddened face, his wobbly split lip, his eyes full of tears, and starts to plan. She’s put up with her bastard of a husband long enough—given him love (or something approximating it), and an heir, and a respectable wife, but this crosses the line. She can handle his biting, drunken insults, his constantly wandering hands, his very physical temper, but not when it comes to her son. 

Her son, whom she bore for nine godsdamned months, whom she tries so very hard not to resent, to instead love as a mother should. The least she can do, she thinks, is protect him from becoming like her. Prevent him from becoming beaten down and bitter at the world. 

So she turns over her options in her mind as Julian sobs his heart out against her, deliberating and discarding each in turn. At the moment, all seem equally unviable; frustrated, she shoos Julian off her lap and calls for a servant. 

When she turns back around, he is kneeling on the ground with something clenched in his hand. “What do you have there?” she wonders, idly hoping it isn’t a spider. The last thing she needs right now is another fucking spider infestation. 

He holds out his hand to show her a tiny, perfectly circular ruby, a stunning blood-red. He tells her he made it, that it somehow formed when his blood hit the ground. She doesn’t know whether to be horrified or thrilled; surely, there’s no way this will come without a cost. Magic always has a price, and she dreads finding out what this might do to her and her family. 

On the other hand, this could provide the perfect escape for them. After all, her husband has control of all their finances, so it’s not as if they can leave Lettenhove without becoming penniless beggars. With rubies like these, though, she could buy their freedom in favors and safe passage, set them up with a nice new life, and perhaps even fake their deaths so that bastard never comes looking for them. 

She would even be able to pay for an education for Julian, with enough coin. He seems to enjoy his music lessons; perhaps when he is older she can send him to Oxenfurt for their famous liberal arts program. 

A new plan begins to take shape in her mind; it will require sacrifice and pain, perhaps even blood and tears, but it will be worth it. 

As months and years pass, she keeps telling herself that. Even when Julian bursts into her rooms for the third time in a week, crying over a new hurt, she collects the rubies that fall and tells herself that it is for his own good. 

“A little pain does us good,” she soothes him, waiting for the blood to stop dripping from his hands before she bandages them and gathers the numerous gems. It was broken glass, this time; Julian sobs as he tells her how that bastard threw a bottle at him, and then made him clean it up. 

“I know it’s difficult, dear, but you will be better for it, in the end. Besides,” she bites her lip, debating telling him, and then reasons, what could it possibly hurt? “Besides, it’s only for a few more weeks. Soon you and I can go to the coast, and we’ll never have to see this wretched manor again.” 

He looks up at her with wide eyes, tears drying up almost instantly. “The coast? Why?”

“Well, we’ll be moving there. We’ll have a nice house by the sea, just you and me.”

“But what about father?” 

“He’s going to stay here. His job is important, so he doesn’t want to leave.”

He looks torn at that. “What if I don’t want to leave?” he asks in a small voice. “Father says I have to learn how to do his job and be a good citizen ‘cause I’ll have responsibilities like him.” He sounds infinitely older when he says that, and if the countess hadn’t hardened her heart years ago, it would have broken at that thought. 

“Julian,” she snaps, choosing to feel irritated instead of any other emotions that could weaken her resolve. “We’re going, and you will never have to see Lettenhove, or your bastard of a father, again.” Time for some hard truths. “He doesn’t love you. He loves the idea of you. Do you really want to grow up and be like him? Does he seem happy to you?” she demands.

“No…” he admits, lip trembling. “But… but you said he was making me better. You said pain is a necessary sacrifice.”

She flounders. Clearly those debate lessons were well paid for. “It is, but only to a point. Soon you won’t need to sacrifice any more, and then you never have to hurt again. I promise.” She wraps his hands and pulls him close, effectively ending the conversation. 

A short while later, a soft voice pipes up. “Mama?”

“Yes, Julian?”

“How come my blood turns into rubies? I tried to ask Master Lukasz but he said I should stop reading so many fairy tales.”

Oh gods. “You _told_ him? Julian!” she screeches. If someone found out… 

He pulls back, frowning. “No! I just asked if he had ever heard of it, is all.”

“You can’t _ever_ tell anyone about this. They could kidnap you, or hurt you, or worse. _Promise_ me you won’t ever tell anyone.” This could have undone every plan of hers in a single day. 

He nods quickly. “I won’t. But why does it? Am I a witch ‘cause I have magic blood?”

“I don’t _know,_ Julian. We mustn’t question what the gods see fit to give us.” That silences all discussion of the topic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: very mild self harm. the end notes have more details.

Julian is kind of excited, but mostly scared. His mother told him they would be leaving forever, but it didn’t seem real until now. Now, they have bags packed with ‘only the essentials’, as she put it, which for him means a couple changes of clothes, his notebook, and some snacks. 

She didn’t let him bring his lute, which he threw a fit about before she promised to buy him a new one. It still didn’t stop him from sulking for days, which made him not pay attention to his lessons, which made Master Lukasz tell his father he ‘wasn’t reaching his full potential’ which is tutor-talk for ‘your son is misbehaving, please straighten him out’. Which meant his father got angry and Julian bore the brunt of it.

So he isn’t having the best week.

And on top of it all, they have to ride horses now, and he  _ hates  _ riding with a passion. It’s his least favorite, second only to sitting through his boring maths lessons. 

“Get on the damn horse, Julian,” his mother spits. “We have to  _ go. _ ” She’s more frazzled than he’s ever seen her, and that scares him more than anything, seeing his normally level-headed mother so upset she’s  _ cursing _ . 

He gets on the damn horse—which he’s allowed to call it, now, because she did first—and, mounted, they take off down the road into the night. 

His excitement and fear slowly burn off as they ride through the night, because it’s really hard to stay like that when he’s so mind-numbingly bored. At first he was excited to stay up all night, but he’s mostly just tired, now.

They have to keep riding, though; in fact, his mother doesn’t let them stop until the sun is high in the sky the next morning, and they both look and feel a little worse for wear. 

They’ve passed through many towns on their way north, but when they reach a Temerian border town, almost in Cidaris, they stable the horses and enter a tavern for lunch. 

He’s never been in a tavern before, and is almost immediately taken in with the colorful bard putting on a show inside. “Mother, please,  _ please  _ can I go watch?” he begs, and she hesitates, but acquiesces with a nod. She orders food and grabs a table while he pushes his way through the crowd, taking advantage of small bony elbows until he reaches the front.

The bard is  _ fantastic.  _ This is easily the best thing he’s ever seen, and that includes the time when his father came home from a hunt absolutely covered in bee stings. 

Her cap even has a jaunty little feather on it that sways as she moves to the beat. He resolves to get a cap with a feather on it as soon as possible, right after he gets his lute. 

She plays a few more songs, then begs off for a break, holding out her cap as she goes. The tavern patrons throw coins of all sizes inside, and Julian pats his pockets but finds no coin to give. He has to give  _ something,  _ though, for such an excellent performance. 

An idea strikes him. Very subtly, he picks at a scab on his knee until it starts to bleed, letting it drip onto the floor a little. He gets two small rubies for his trouble.

When the bard comes close enough, he drops them in her cap. She smiles at him reflexively before the red gleam catches her eye and her mouth drops open. “Why—why thank you, good sir! Your generosity will not be forgotten!”

He’s about to ask her if she can teach him to be a bard like her, but his mother suddenly appears. “Julian, your food will get cold. Come eat, we have to leave soon.” She grabs his hand and pulls him away, and he waves goodbye to the bard a little sadly.

The food is still warm, if a little bland, and he eats quickly so he doesn’t have to spend too much time tasting it. 

They’re back in the saddle shortly after, the monotony of the days of riding that follow only broken up by eating terrible food in tiny taverns and sleeping on musty hay-stuffed mattresses. He doesn’t even get to see a bard again, and they pass from Velen swampland into Redania with little fanfare. 

They find a house on the coast between Novigrad and Oxenfurt, barely more than a cottage, really, but after weeks on the road, it’s practically paradise.

Julian settles in well, making friends with some of the other children from the village nearby. One of them, a nobleman’s son, Valdo Marx, even used to live in Lettenhove like him, and they quickly bond over shared experiences. Valdo also has an interest in music, and together they spend hours at a time composing and practicing duets.

Having a friend so close to him means Julian has to work harder than ever to keep his secret, though. A couple of times, he has to hurriedly stick a finger in his mouth when he gets a papercut, or make excuses and run home when he scrapes his knee. Valdo always asks him where he’s going, but each time it sounds less like concern and more like suspicion. Julian worries he’ll be found out, but it never comes to anything, so he relaxes. 

They share their teenage years in a blur of co-conspiracy and friendly competition. Before Julian even knows it, Valdo, two years older than him, heads off to study at Oxenfurt University, and Julian has to temper his sadness by reasoning that he can join Valdo as soon as he’s old enough. 

He works hard at the music lessons his mother pays for with the rubies she used to collect—and now that Julian is older, it’s more and more unnerving that they live off of what used to be his blood, but he supposes that they could never have left Lettenhove without them, and devotes more effort to steadfastly ignoring it. Besides, his mother promises that she’s looking for a mage who can lift the spell on him. She hasn’t had any luck yet, but they’re both hopeful.

He and his mother rarely even worry about their past life catching up to them. Surely by now his father has shown that he truly cares little for them, since they never even hear word that he might be looking for them.

By his fifteenth summer, Julian is near bouncing off the walls in anticipation of his first semester at Oxenfurt. He falls in love with people and life itself alike, and every golden summer day is a new gift to him.

It seems like his happiness will never end.

\--

His first week at Oxenfurt passes in a blur of new faces and new experiences. He’s never seen this many people being so delightfully loud all at once, but soon enough all the noise fades into a comforting background harmony.

He absolutely  _ flourishes  _ under the attention his professors give him, and for a couple of months, nothing can possibly bring down his mood.

Trust Valdo Marx to ruin it all.

Julian  _ thought  _ they were friends, thought he would get to Oxenfurt and have someone to maybe show him around, get him into the best parties, tell him all about everything he’s learned in the years they’ve been apart. Reality is vastly different.

Julian is sitting in the courtyard, on a comfortable stone bench in the shade of a large oak tree, working on a composition for one of his classes. It’s a tricky assignment; he has to take the work of another artist they’ve studied and rework the lyrics into one of his own melodies.

He’s so engrossed in his work he doesn’t see Valdo approaching with a group of friends. “Julian! Fancy seeing you here,” he greets.

Julian’s head snaps up at the sound of a familiar voice. “Valdo! I was wondering when I would finally run into you. We’ve so much to talk about!” He immediately starts stuffing his papers away in his bag, eager to take the afternoon off and catch up with his friend.

He’s not quick enough to grab his personal notebook before Valdo snatches it up, rifling through the pages. Julian fights off the momentary pang of indignation at someone else looking through his work, telling himself that it’s not any different than when they were kids and would share their work all the time.

“You actually wrote this?” Valdo remarks, peering intently at the notebook. Julian nods, overjoyed at Valdo’s surprise. He’s improved a lot since they last saw each other, and he’s very proud of what he’s written down in that notebook—songs, of course, but he’s also branched out into poetry, has scribbled down a few late-night love sonnets.

What Valdo says next, however, takes Julian completely by surprise. “I could expect better from a monkey! You should know better, rhyming  _ stream  _ with  _ green _ . A slant rhyme? How very pedantic. Gods, you’re an embarrassment to the entire craft.”

Julian’s stomach drops to the floor. He feels gutted and numb at the same time. He can’t even say anything, can only stand there dumbly as Valdo continues to leaf through the notebook, letting out a cruel laugh with each turn of the page. “Childish,” he deems one song, a rewrite of one they worked on together. “Two years, and you still haven’t grown a bit. At this rate they’ll put you in the grave before you make anything of worth.”

He finally reaches the end and throws it down at Julian’s feet, loose papers weakly fluttering out of it. It feels like he’s been completely eviscerated, all the blood rushing to his face making him feel a little dizzy with it.

“I can’t believe they let you in here,” he adds, then turns to his friends, who have been watching him with something like contempt on their faces the whole time. “Let’s get out of here. Wouldn’t want to be seen anywhere near that disappointment.”

They walk away, leaving Julian to fight back tears as he gathers what’s left of his things and his dignity and runs.

He makes it back to his rooms just as the tears start to fall, and then it’s as if a dam breaks. He can’t stop himself from sobbing, heaving in great gulps of air that are forced out of him moments later by the force of his sorrow. He’s never known betrayal quite like this; even as a child, the emotional pain his father inflicted wasn’t as bad as the physical pain.

But this? Heartless words coming from someone he trusted, someone he once considered his best friend? He can feel his heart shattering in his chest as he bawls.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before the tears slow to a trickle, rather than a flood. His head is pounding, eyes itchy and nose stuffed, and yet the pain in his heart is greater than any of it. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop feeling hollow inside, scraped raw.

He sits up from where he collapsed on the bed, intent on cleaning himself up at least a little, maybe grabbing some tea for his headache and for the warmth it provides. Or maybe something stronger—drink to forget, isn’t that what they say?

When he opens his eyes, however, he has to blink a few times, make sure he’s really seeing what’s in front of him. The image doesn’t dissipate, and in shock Julian leans down to touch, hesitant.

His fingers meet cold, clear crystal. There’s no doubt about it; somehow gems have manifested around him while he cried.

Closer inspection reveals them to be perfect diamonds the shape of teardrops, scattered everywhere his tears might have fallen. There must be hundreds strewn across the floor.

He doesn’t understand. This hasn’t happened any other time he’s cried, and he used to cry a  _ lot.  _ It was par for the course with his childhood.

Then again, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt true sorrow like this before. It’s like a physical wound, burrowing deep inside his heart. He’s heard that magic often springs from true, pure emotions.

Whatever the cause, he has to get rid of the diamonds,  _ now.  _ He could never hope to explain where they all came from, and trying to barter or buy anything with them would be worse than sticking a sign saying ‘rob me, I’m rich’ to his back.

He gathers them up, throwing them inside a leather pouch, where they clink together like shards of broken glass. He tucks the pouch inside his boot where hopefully it will go unnoticed.

It’s near enough to suppertime now that there won’t be as many people out and about in the city; he makes it to the docks without any trouble. He drops the pouch in the water, where it can be buried by silt and lie at the bottom of the harbor forever.

As he watches it sink, it feels like his previous self sinks into the water with it. The Julian of his youth is dead; he died along with his stupid childish innocence the moment he let Valdo fucking Marx have any power over him.

He’ll remake himself.

He’ll need a stage name, for a start, and he’ll become the best damn bard the Continent has ever known, and no one will ever hurt him like this again.

\--

He writes to his mother, informing her of the latest development, because while he feels like a new man, he still sometimes needs the reassurance of family. And who knows, maybe she actually did contact a mage to find out what’s wrong with him, like she said she was going to years ago. Maybe this new incident is actually the key to the whole thing, and they can figure out the mystery that has plagued his entire life.

So he writes his mother and gives the letter to a courier, not really expecting a reply, since he goes home for winter intersession in a few weeks anyway.

Unbeknownst to him, the courier is immediately set upon by Valdo, who demands the letter with the air of someone who wields noble power and knows how to use it. It only takes a few vague threats and a hefty bribe for him to hand it over. Valdo reads it and almost dismisses it as pure fantasy out of hand, but then he considers what he knows about Julian—he left Lettenhove quite suddenly at a young age, he rarely talks about his past home, and he looks distinctly uncomfortable around anything sharp. Not scared, no, but more like intensely aware that they posed a danger to him. And there were all those times when he got a papercut, or a scraped knee, or some other minor injury, and had to immediately leave.

Which would make sense, if he truly did bleed rubies and wanted to hide it, if he had fled his home for some related reason and never wanted to discuss it nor go back.

And now this, apparently, that he can cry diamonds? Why, the lad is like the fable of the golden goose! Valdo thinks of the power, of the wealth, that this information might gain him, and starts to plan. He will go to Lettenhove over the winter, under the guise of returning to his roots, and he will seek out Julian’s father. He will intimate that he has information related to his erstwhile son, information that could be very profitable, and he will secure himself two things: the favor of whatever powerful noble Julian’s father is, and the promise of a share of the profits from any endeavor he might take involving Julian.

He only has to wait a few short weeks before the snows begin, the semester ends, and he sets off for Lettenhove. From what he can remember of the place, the Duke of Northern Kerack technically has reign, but delegates most of his power and duty to the local power, the Count de Lettenhove. He starts there, because the count will surely know the members of his court intimately well, enough to know any gossip there might be about a runaway family.

The count initially refuses to see him, the chamberlain claiming that he is unfortunately indisposed and simply too busy with reviewing tax revenues to take any guests. Valdo is made to cool his heels in the disproportionately large hall, drafty even with a roaring fireplace.

Valdo Marx waits for no man, however, and decides to act on a hunch. Namely, that the count  _ is  _ Julian’s father, and the reason that Lettenhove has been steadily falling apart under his rule is that his life was turned upside down years ago, and he has fallen into drinking to cope.

He not-so-subtly clears his throat, beckoning the chamberlain over. “Yes, my lord?” he says wearily, clearly a well-practiced phrase.

“My good man, I think it would behoove you to know that I do in fact have very important information for his lordship, surely much more relevant than any tax revenue statements he may be reviewing, and he would surely be very pleased indeed to learn that his wife and son are alive and well; that I know where they reside; that I do, in fact, attend Oxenfurt University with dear Julian, who has recently come into a great deal of wealth that his lordship may want to partake in; and that I, Valdo Marx of Oxenfurt University, know how his lordship might go about doing so.” He concludes his speech with a shallow bow and a dramatic flare of his cape, because he never really lost his love of musical theater, and does love a good flourish now and again.

He straightens out of his bow to find that the chamberlain has gone pale; ah, so his hunch was indeed correct. This should prove interesting.

“My lord,” the chamberlain stammers, “I shall inform the count at once. Please remain here; he will surely want to see you shortly.”

_ That’s more like it,  _ Valdo thinks, satisfied. He hears the door to the study shut, murmured words, and then the sound of glass breaking. It’s a good sign; the count is clearly emotionally invested in this, and Valdo went to school specifically to study how to read and manipulate people’s emotions. He stands to gain a great deal from this.

When he is shown into the study, whatever mess the count made in his anger has been cleaned up, and he himself looks remarkably composed. “Please do come in,” he welcomes Valdo. “I am Stjepan Alfred Pankratz, Count de Lettenhove. I hear you may have news about my son?”

“Yes, I do,” Valdo assures him, taking a seat in the plush armchair across the desk. “You see, my lord, I recently came across Julian during my studies at Oxenfurt; he was rather distressed, and asked that I deliver this letter for him. He was so distraught that I was immediately overcome by concern for him, and though I regret to admit, I read his letter in an attempt to ascertain what could possibly be troubling him so.” He wrings his hands, feigning worry.

“Well, I am certainly glad you did, seeing as it brought you here, with news of my poor wayward son. Tell me, what ails him?”

“He believes himself to be cursed, a curse that masquerades as a blessing. You see, according to this letter—” he brandishes the letter in question, having pulled it from his breast pocket, “—Julian has the extraordinary ability to turn his blood and tears into precious gems.”

He waits for the count to reject his preposterous claim, preparing counterarguments in his head as the seconds pass, fully expecting a lengthy conversation during which he can convince the count of the validity of his claims and the importance of having Valdo himself involved in the entire affair.

He doesn’t expect the count to stand up and stride out of the study, leaving Valdo and the chamberlain standing at the doorway dumbstruck. The count marches down the hall without another word and disappears around a corner.

“He’s going to the barracks? At this hour?” the chamberlain mutters to himself, then seems to remember that Valdo is still standing bereft in the study. “Well, my lord, I do say that is as apparent a dismissal as I’ve ever seen. I shall show you to the door.”

Valdo is still shocked, too taken aback to form any sort of argument as to why he should be allowed to stay. He finds himself standing at the threshold of the manor with the door firmly shut behind him, holding his cloak and at a loss as to where to go next.

\--

The count storms into the barracks, rousing everyone with a cry. “Up! Get up! I want every man ready to ride in twenty minutes!”

Casmir, the captain of the guard, is  _ absolutely  _ not paid enough to deal with this shit at near midnight. “Sir, it’s the middle of the night. Might I ask why it is so imperative that we leave immediately? It would be safer to leave with the sunrise, especially with the road dangerous from snow.”

“I don’t pay you to ask questions. I pay you to follow orders, and your orders right now are to prepare every man to leave. We head for Oxenfurt.” Without another word the count sweeps off, leaving Casmir to grumble and go about organizing the men.

“You heard the man. Twenty minutes and we leave.” He ignores the chorus of complaints that arise, instead turning his attention to packing his own shit.

The ride is absolutely fucking  _ miserable _ . It’s pissing down out, a hellish mix of sleet and rain that has the horses struggling to keep pace on the journey. Who the fuck marches a company of thirty men through the Velen fucking swamplands in the middle of fucking winter? The Count de Lettenhove, that’s who, and Casmir lets the heat of his burning rage at the count warm him through the night.

He stops counting the days they’ve been on the road, because it only makes him depressed the higher the number climbs. They eventually, thankfully, finally reach Oxenfurt, only to find that the students have all been dismissed for the winter months. The count flies into another one of his rages, nearly breaks poor Jan’s arm, and Casmir has to put himself between the count and his men before other tempers snap and shit starts going down.

The count then gives orders for them to stake out the University until the students come back, instructing them to find Julian Alfred Pankratz at all costs. He himself has neglected his duties back at Lettenhove for too long already, and takes ten men with him on the return journey to Lettenhove.

Casmir and the rest of his men are left to wait out the long winter months alone, but Casmir knows that as soon as the students return, they will all be eagerly searching for Julian. That little shit who caused this entire mess will be coming back with them, whether he likes it or not, and Casmir isn’t above ambushing him and tying him to a horse.

One way or another, Casmir will be leaving Oxenfurt with Julian in tow soon.

\--

Jaskier returns for the spring semester with a new spring in his step and his lute over his shoulder, feeling fully refreshed from a relaxing winter at home. His mother hadn’t gotten his letter when he returned, but he didn’t think it overly unusual, what with the terrible weather and dangerous roads. He told her anyway, and as he expected, she didn’t have a solution, only a look of cold disappointment when he told her what he had done with the diamonds.

But it was over and done with quickly when she realized that he can’t cry like that on command, and left him with vague instructions to keep the diamonds if it ever happened again. It hasn’t, and he doesn’t ever plan on letting himself; instead, he resolved to focus on everything wonderful about life, and thus, the spring in his step as he walks back into the commons.

His happiness is almost broken when, barely ten seconds later, he hears Priscilla greeting him from across the courtyard. “Julian! How was your break?”

He doesn’t let his smile dim. “Simply fantastic! And, I’ll have you know, I’ve chosen a stage name for myself! Before you stands Jaskier the bard, triumphant!”

“ _ Jaskier _ ? What is that, Elder?” she asks.

“Not sure, actually. I just know it means buttercup—don’t laugh!” he warns, pointing a finger threateningly.

“I wasn’t going to! I think it’s beautiful, actually,” she admits. “Want me to get the word out? We could do joint performances together, ‘Jaskier and the Callonetta’. It has a nice ring to it.”

“That would be lovely! Let me unpack, and then why don’t we see if Shani is around, we can all catch up?”

She agrees, dashing off to tell everyone the news of Jaskier’s name change. It’s always a point of excitement at Oxenfurt when a student debuts their stage identity, and he’s particularly eager to leave Julian behind.

He’s almost reached his rooms when he’s stopped by a large, imposing man wearing black-and-maroon livery.  _ Lettenhove colors.  _ “Excuse me, young man. Are you a student here?”

Jaskier, for all that he feels his heart racing and stomach dropping, somehow doesn’t show any sign of nervousness when he responds. “Yes, I am. Jaskier the bard, at your service.” He holds out a hand and prays the soldier doesn’t notice his sweaty palms.

The soldier ignores his attempt at a handshake. “Back from winter break, are you?”

“Yes, just come from Creyden.  _ Dreadfully  _ cold up there, by the way. I don’t know how I managed, living in the mountains for so long!”

With every word that pours from his mouth, the soldier looks more and more annoyed. “Right. Well, would you happen to know a Julian Alfred Pankratz? His father is worried about him, sent us to make sure he’s alright.”

“Julian, let’s see, Julian…” He taps his chin, pretending to wrack his mind. “Nope, sorry, name doesn’t ring a bell. You might try the astronomy department? They’ve got a lot of noble types.”

The soldier nods decisively. “If you come across him, let us know.” The way he says it, it comes across as a threat. Thoroughly convinced he’s done his duty, the soldier nods a sharp goodbye and walks away.

Jaskier waits until he disappears from sight before he hurries to his rooms, slamming the door behind him and pushing the panic welling inside of him back down. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ His father’s soldiers? Here? How could they have  _ possibly  _ found him?

Then he forces himself to think rationally; mindless terror isn’t helpful right now. They clearly don’t know what he looks like; he was able to lie quite easily, in fact, and thank the gods he’s already started to use his new name. With any luck, Priscilla will be able to get the word out before the soldiers start to question people who knew him as Julian.

He calms down more as he unpacks his luggage, then sits down to pluck out some melodies on his lute until he hears a knock at his door.

It’s Priscilla, with Shani in tow, and as they drag him out to join a snowball fight that has started in the commons, he almost forgets all about the soldiers from Lettenhove.

\--

By some miracle, Priscilla has managed to spread the word of Jaskier’s debut well enough that no one would even  _ think  _ of referring to him as Julian. She also helps spread the word that these soldiers aren’t to be trusted, and the speed with which Oxenfurt turns against the intruders is breathtaking.

The students spread rumors, as students do.  _ Julian was mauled by a bear on the road, poor thing; they found him in pieces. Julian? Oh, he set off for Skellige, wanted to do research on the skalds. I heard Julian fell in love with an elvish prince, and went off to live in Caed Myrkvid.  _ On and on and on, until nobody knows the truth about Julian Alfred Pankratz.

The soldiers chase after several of these leads, but after each and every one proves to be a wild goose chase, they give up and return to Lettenhove empty-handed. Jaskier turns his full attention to becoming the best bard he can possibly be, and before he even knows it, he’s eighteen and graduating with full honors, awarded the title of Master of the Seven Liberal Arts.

He bids goodbye to his friends, promising to write, and sets off into the world to find his destiny.

Two months later, he finds himself in Posada, badly wanting for an appreciative audience, but utterly unwilling to abandon his dream so early.

Unfortunately, times are lean, and he finds himself forced to scavenge for food off the floor after his performances lead to a less-than-ideal bombardment of food.

One hot summer day, he considers selling his blood for money. It’s not like he doesn’t have blood to spare—how much could the human body possibly need? And it isn’t as if he hasn’t done it before.

As he picks up moldy bread off the floor and stuffs it in his pants, he resolves that if he hasn’t made any coin by three days from now, he’ll resort to the rubies. For now, he dusts off the worst of the dirt and scans the tavern for someone he can draw into conversation.

A man dressed in all black, sitting in the corner, catches his eye.

The rest, as they say, is history.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed warnings: Julian picks at a scab until it bleeds in order to get two small rubies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mentions of self harm, more deliberate now. end notes have more details.

Geralt doesn’t quite know what to think of the bard, Jaskier. He constantly talks, but says so little. He’s reckless, but seems terrified of getting injured. He’s a carefree soul, but he’s constantly looking over his shoulder, as if he’s expecting to be followed. And most of all, he  _ won’t. Leave. Geralt. Alone. _

This is now the third time in as many months they’ve crossed paths, and that stupid  _ Toss a Coin  _ song hasn’t left his head since. Jaskier saw him leaving the ealdorman’s house in Midcopse, having just delivered the head of a noonwraith, and hurriedly made his way through the crowded town square before Geralt could lose him.

He follows him all the way to the local inn, chattering all the while, meaningless words that Geralt pays little attention to. When they reach the inn, the innkeeper tells him that it’s 40 crowns for a room, and out of the corner of his eye Geralt sees Jaskier’s face drop.

As much as he doesn’t want the kid following him around, possibly getting hurt, he’s not cruel enough to leave him out in the cold when, for once, he has a bit of coin to spare. “Hmm. Give me a room with two beds,” he tells the innkeeper, sliding over the additional ten crowns it costs. When he turns to look at Jaskier, he has some unnamable emotion written across his face. It makes Geralt uncomfortable to look at, so he shoulders his pack higher and wordlessly heads to their room.

“I promise I’ll pay you back,” Jaskier babbles, repeating reassurance after reassurance that he wouldn’t take advantage of Geralt’s kindness, and that soon enough he can earn back the coin, and that he won’t impose on Geralt much longer.

Almost without pause, he then immediately launches into a lengthy explanation for why he absolutely needs to know all about the noonwraith fight Geralt just had, his livelihood depended on it, Geralt, he couldn’t very well pay him back if he had no new material to work with, now could he?

So while he has a bath drawn, Geralt finds himself answering a barrage of questions about specters, how to fight them, how they're made, what they prey on. It’s more than Geralt’s talked all week, and he’s glad when the bath arrives, giving him an excuse to kick Jaskier out of the room.

Jaskier goes downstairs, claiming he’ll see about rustling up some dinner for the both of them, but Geralt doesn’t know how successful he’ll be, given that he has barely any coin.

He’s surprised, then, when he’s woken out of the doze he fell into in the tub by Jaskier pushing the door open, bearing two steaming hot plates. It smells delicious, venison with potatoes and root vegetables, although, underneath, a slight hint of…metal?

Hmm. Maybe the fields the town grows their crops in has a metal deposit. Geralt just hopes the smell doesn’t put him off eating too much, because after the difficult fight he had earlier, he desperately needs to replenish his energy.

The food is delicious, and as soon as they’ve finished eating, Geralt climbs into bed with a pleasantly full stomach, almost immediately falling asleep. Jaskier heads back downstairs, probably in an attempt to earn some money with his playing. Geralt is briefly woken when the moon is high in the sky by Jaskier returning to the room and getting ready for bed, even as quiet as he’s trying to be.

The metallic smell is back, but Geralt doesn’t think on it much before drifting back to sleep.

He rises before the sun, as always, and heads out to find a contract. In such a small village, though, the only notices posted are for mundane things; someone looking to borrow a wheelbarrow, a ‘wife wanted’ poster, an obituary.

Disgruntled, he heads back to the inn. If there’s no work to be had, he can at least take time to attend to some personal chores. There are a few small tears in his armor he’s been meaning to mend, and he can visit the local alchemist to restock some potion ingredients he’s running low on.

Jaskier is still asleep when he enters their room, but he’s kicked off the blankets and his shirt sleeves are rucked up. It means that the sight of bandages around his left wrist catches Geralt’s eye. He frowns.

The bard never mentioned he was injured. And in such a vital place, too; Geralt knows the kind of damage that can be wrought on the fragile veins there, knows how easy it is to lose a life with one cut of a knife.

He forces himself to look away, ignoring the sick feeling rising in his gut. It’s none of his business; they're practically strangers, and Geralt has no intention of letting himself get any more attached.

He spends the rest of the morning in silence while he sews. When Jaskier wakes up, he’s his normal ebullient self, nothing to indicate any lingering pain or sadness. He follows Geralt from Midcopse all the way to Vizima, but snows are setting in, and they part ways for the winter.

Geralt wonders if he’ll see the bard again next year. 

\--

He does, in fact, see the bard again next year, and the year after that, and it’s truly astounding how he seems to have the uncanny ability to track Geralt down every spring. Geralt eventually grows used to, and dare he even say fond of, Jaskier’s presence.

One thing he never gets used to, though, is the metallic odor that follows Jaskier around. By now Geralt has identified it as blood, but whenever he asks after it, Jaskier pretends like he knows nothing about it. Geralt knows it’s a lie, but he also knows how delicate of an issue this could be. He leaves it alone.

Or at least, he leaves it alone, until a contract goes wrong.

He’s hired to kill whatever it is that’s been robbing graves in the local cemetery—probably some kind of necrophage. Necrophages aren’t dangerous unless they swarm, but he thinks there’s only one, judging by the tracks around the cemetery. Probably a water hag, come from the pond nearby. Jaskier begs to come along, as he always does, and his face lights up in surprise and delight when Geralt nods.

Jaskier crouches in the bushes behind the mausoleum, well-hidden from anyone not actively looking, while Geralt kneels among the graves. He’s prepared all he can for this fight; the only thing left to do is wait. He settles into an easy meditation.

He surfaces hours later, after the moon has risen. There’s no noise coming from the bushes—perhaps Jaskier has actually taken his advice for once and remained silent under threat of discovery. Or, more likely given the late hour, he’s fallen asleep.

Too bad for him. Geralt rises to his feet as the necrophage shuffles into view, and it’s a hag, as he expected. Not a water hag, but a grave hag, which makes this fight a bit harder, but he should be able to handle it, provided there are no surprises.

He shouldn’t have said that. Of course there are surprises, and  _ of course  _ it’s Jaskier’s fault. Geralt is twirling his sword, dancing in and out of reach of the grave hag’s wicked tongue, landing hits here and there. The fight creeps closer to the mausoleum, and Geralt growls. He has to keep it away from Jaskier at all costs; though grave hags prefer dead meat, they’ll eat living prey too.

He battles it back towards the center of the graveyard, and is ready to strike a killing blow when a sound, a shifting of dirt, comes from behind a nearby gravestone.

The grave hag turns, lashing out with its claws and tongue, and strikes true; Geralt hears a pained cry seconds before the hag’s screech as he beheads it. He’s barely tired, but he can hear panting breaths coming from the gravestone, sounding suspiciously human. Suspiciously like Jaskier, in fact.

Geralt stalks over, sword still in hand. He schools his face into an unimpressed glare as he looks down to see Jaskier, the fool,  _ not  _ safely ensconced in the bushes, but instead far too close to the fight. He’s bleeding from a wound on his shoulder where the hag’s tongue had whipped him, and it smells of blood and poison.

“Dammit, Jaskier! I told you to stay behind the mausoleum!” He drops his sword and rips off his gloves, roughly grabbing Jaskier’s arm to inspect the wound.

Jaskier cries out at the pain, tears beginning to form in his eyes, but he gives a watery smile. “Couldn’t see well enough,” he explains.

“Better to have an obstructed view than to be  _ dead.  _ Grave hags have venomous tongues.” It’s not bleeding very much, but there’s still plenty of cause to worry; the surrounding skin has started to take on a worrying purplish tinge—the venom at work.

A sudden tremble at his chest, his medallion, has him whipping his head around to scan for danger. Could there be a second grave hag? Or more necrophages, drawn by the sound of the fight and the scent of the decaying hag’s corpse?

The only movement is the idle rustling of leaves in the slight breeze. But his medallion is still vibrating.

He makes a quick decision, scooping Jaskier up. He can leave the hag for now, come back for a trophy in the morning. He should get Jaskier back to their camp, where he can see about draining and cleaning the wound, and not have to worry about any monsters creeping up on them.

His medallion gives off intermittent tremors as he lugs Jaskier back to their camp, making Geralt more and more antsy with every step. Try as he might, though, he can’t sense any monsters around, so he’s forced to focus instead on the little pained sounds Jaskier is trying to muffle as he is jolted with each step. 

Geralt sets Jaskier down, propped against a stump, while he goes to rummage in Roach’s saddlebags for his waterskin and some bandages. His medallion finally calms down, and Geralt feels his shoulders lose some of the tension.

However, as he crosses their campsite, back towards Jaskier, the vibrations start up again, increasing in intensity with each step he gets nearer to the bard.

Reacting to the grave hag’s poison, maybe? It’s never done that with him, but maybe humans react to it differently than witchers do. After all, his body can neutralize most anything he puts in it; Jaskier sadly has none of the same defenses. His medallion is probably sensing that.

He ignores all of that as he kneels down next to Jaskier, who has, worryingly, started to wheeze with every breath. Jaskier looks at him with wild eyes. “I’m fine,” he snaps, weakly pushing Geralt away. “Just need a bit of sleep, ‘s all.” Geralt bats away his hand; he’s going to treat Jaskier’s wound whether he wants him to or not.  _ This is my fault, after all,  _ he thinks.  _ Shouldn’t have taken him on the hunt. Should’ve known better. _

He yanks down the shoulder of Jaskier’s shirt, seeing harsh red lines radiating from the wound. “Fuck,” he curses. It’s progressing faster than he thought. He rips the entire shirt off, uncaring of Jaskier's protests of  _ that was expensive, you jerk,  _ and  _ really, Geralt, just leave me alone!  _ “This will hurt,” he warns, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady it. Jaskier grits his teeth.

He takes his waterskin and pours it in the wound, hearing it hiss and bubble in answer to the venom. Jaskier groans beneath him. “Have to clean it out,” he says curtly, taking a clean cloth and dabbing at the wound. Jaskier’s shoulder jerks beneath his hold, but Geralt keeps a firm grip, not letting him squirm away.

His medallion trembles the entire time, only stopping when all of the poison has drained out of Jaskier’s body and the slow-but-steady bleeding has stopped. Geralt ties off the bandages and steps back.

He leaves Jaskier to catch his breath, searching his pack for any herbs he can use to prevent a fever. There should be no further risk of infection, but better safe than sorry. He finds some feverfew and grinds it up, setting some water to boil so he can make a tea out of it.

Meanwhile, Jaskier has regained some color in his cheeks and is back to his restless self. Geralt looks over to see Jaskier shifting about, occupied with something in the dirt, for some reason.

“What are you doing over there? Don’t aggravate your shoulder digging around in the dirt.”

Jaskier jumps. “Nothing!” he chirps, slamming his hands down on the ground, then wincing when it pulls at his wound.

“Hmm.” He truly never will understand his bard. “Here. Drink it,” he says, handing the tea to Jaskier.

Jaskier takes a sip and immediately spits it out. “Gross! What’s in this, dirt?”

Geralt glares at him. “It’s for fever. Don’t spit it out, you’ll waste it.”

Jaskier grumbles but drains it in one go, shuddering as he swallows. “Disgusting,” he proclaims, tossing the cup away. Then he blinks, once, twice, pupils dilating. He sways, and would fall over were it not for Geralt gently pushing him down to lie on his bedroll.

Geralt may have also put a sedative in the tea.

“What was in that? ‘M so… tired…” And with that, he's snoring. Ever loud, even in his sleep.

Geralt sits up for a few more hours, studiously watching for any signs of infection, and when he finds none, he too sleeps.

\--

Jaskier’s song about the grave hag is an unexpected hit, but that’s probably because he wrote himself as the tragically wounded hero to garner sympathy. It works, and the coin rolls in. Geralt starts taking him on more hunts, although always with the strict caveat that he stay as far away as physically possible. Jaskier, surprisingly, agrees, the scars from the grave hag probably fresh in his mind.

Jaskier’s fame grows with each new song he composes; Geralt’s, too, and he no longer struggles to find work. Everywhere they go, it seems that people have heard of the White Wolf, and their coin purses grow fatter. They start being able to afford finer things, more nights in inns, and they both sleep a little easier with full stomachs and comfortable lodgings.

Geralt even stops smelling blood coming from Jaskier—success agrees with him, Geralt thinks. Time passes, and he’s known Jaskier for nine years when he receives an invitation to play at a royal betrothal banquet in Cintra. He bounces between ecstatic and despairing in turn. It’s almost like watching the tides come in and out, waves of joy followed by waves of anxiety.

This is Jaskier’s big breakthrough, he can finally be recognized for his masterful work. Oh no, wait, he can’t possibly attend a royal event in these clothes; where on earth is he going to find a tailor in time, never mind one he can afford? Oh, yes, he found a tailor, and wasn’t he lucky that he was able to convince them to put a rush on the job? Oh, but wait, he’s just remembered he pissed off the Duke of Attre once, who is sure to be there; what if he wants revenge?

He vacillates back and forth between states so quickly that Geralt, level-headed and calm, starts to worry about the stress being put on the bard. He’s also been smelling the sharp tang of iron more and more recently, and sure enough, when he looks for them, he spots bandages wrapped around discreet places on Jaskier’s body. Geralt morbidly wonders which will kill Jaskier first: the stress of it all, or Jaskier himself.

It’s perhaps why Geralt agrees so readily to attend, presumably to protect Jaskier from vengeful royal cuckolds, but more privately to watch his bard more closely. He doesn’t like what these signs are pointing towards; if it comes down to him protecting Jaskier from himself, so be it. 

With his doublet actually buttoned up properly for once, Jaskier looks the picture of propriety. There’s no trace of any bandages, and the scent of iron is overwhelmed by the perfume he wears. They find themselves having a good time, surprisingly; the food is delicious and the alcohol plentiful.

Then, of course, because Geralt’s life can never go more than five minutes without Destiny tugging on the reins, it all goes to shit.

He loses track of Jaskier in the chaos, and only finds him again once everything has settled down, once he’s been left with a Child of Surprise he doesn’t want and would probably end up getting killed anyway.

So Geralt is in a pretty fucking poor mood, to speak plainly, and almost loses it when he smells blood coming off of Jaskier.  _ Again. _

“Show me,” he demands, cutting Jaskier off as he starts to speak. “I can smell the blood, Jaskier. Show me where you’re hurt.”

Jaskier pales. “You… you can smell blood?” he asks faintly. Then, as if trying to distract Geralt, he blurts, “Is that one of your witchery things? Should I know about any other vaguely unsettling things you can do?”

Geralt won’t be deterred. “Blood, Jaskier. Where’s it coming from?” he growls.

“Okay, okay!” Jaskier yelps. He tilts his head forward, fingers coming up to dab at his hairline. “I think I have a fork to blame for it. Everything was flying around so haphazardly, I couldn’t really tell what was going on.”

Geralt hums. Head wounds do tend to bleed more than is really necessary, and Jaskier doesn’t seem like he has a concussion. He deems the bard safe until they can get back to the inn, and he can take a closer look at it, perhaps rub some salve on it to ensure there’s no infection.

Even though he was otherwise occupied, Geralt still feels the slight sting of guilt at allowing harm to come to his bard. He was meant to keep Jaskier safe, after all. Though he’s glad that the wound wasn’t from Jaskier’s own doing, Geralt still feels like he’s failed somehow. The guilt gnaws at him, but once they’re back in the inn in their shared room, he distracts himself from it by dabbing antiseptic salve on Jaskier’s wound. He doesn’t think it will need a bandage, especially since the bleeding has long since stopped, but he carefully wipes the dried blood away.

When he’s done with the first aid, Geralt shifts back to sit on his heels next to the bed. Jaskier sits above him, cross-legged. After the raucous turmoil of the banquet, the silence of their room seems physically oppressive. Geralt’s ears are ringing, but he can still hear Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up at Geralt’s next words.

“You smell of blood often. Too much.” It isn’t the most elegant way to broach the subject, but then, this isn’t going to be a pleasant conversation anyway.

“You know me, Geralt. Clumsy beyond belief. It’s a miracle I haven’t lost any limbs yet.”

A flat-out lie. If it weren’t for the way Jaskier’s voice pitches up and sweat beads at his temple, Geralt would know by the desperate attempt at humor. “Nobody is this clumsy, Jaskier. And it gets worse whenever you're stressed.”

“Quite frankly, I don’t know that it’s any of your business,” he says coldly, narrowing his eyes and drawing his knees to his chest. The abrupt change in tone feels like the sudden lash of a whip against Geralt’s skin.

“It’s my business to know these things if it puts you or me in danger! How am I supposed to travel with someone I can’t trust? I already can’t trust you on hunts—you’ve made that clear. How am I supposed to do my  _ fucking job,  _ if I’m constantly pulling your ass out of the fire?” Oh fuck, now he’s gone and stepped in it. He let his frustration overwhelm him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Jaskier hated him for it.

Unexpectedly, Jaskier doesn’t retaliate with all of his prowess as a wordsmith. “If that’s how you really feel.” Jaskier’s voice is soft, all venom gone, which is arguably worse. “I guess I’ll take myself off your hands, leave you to your witchering. I won’t put you or anyone else in danger anymore.”

This entire night has gone to shit. Geralt watches numbly as Jaskier packs his things, even though it’s the middle of the night. He wants to say something, anything, to take it back, to make him stay so Geralt can make sure he has the support he needs.

His traitorous voice deserts him, and as the door closes behind Jaskier with a final-sounding  _ click,  _ Geralt only sits and stares at the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is implied that Jaskier has been cutting himself for rubies when he's low on money. Geralt confronts him about it and they fight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for self harm, shown this time. as always, details are in the end notes.

Jaskier shuts the door behind him and very firmly does not let any tears fall. He scrubs at his face furiously, feeling too many things to name whirling inside him.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself. Right. Okay. Most important right now is finding somewhere to sleep, given that it’s well past midnight and he’s exhausted from the banquet and the fight.

He shoulders his pack up higher, gripping his lute case tightly, clinging to the comfort it provides. As he leaves the inn, he wracks his brain for somewhere to go. He doesn’t know Cintra very well, has only been this far south once, and that was with Geralt on a trip to Toussaint. 

Oh. There’s an idea. The Countess de Stael had been quite taken with him, during those few nights they spent together at her villa in Beauclair. If he heads back into the city of Cintra, he can try and find a caravan to travel south with. It’s not even close to the protection a witcher can provide, but anything is better than traveling alone on the road, and like hell is he going to slink back to Geralt with his tail between his legs and ask him to accompany him to Beauclair.

Jaskier treks all the way back into the city, but strikes out at every inn he tries. There isn’t a room to be found anywhere, what with all the guests attending the banquet.

Dawn is just beginning to break over the horizon when he finally finds a barn door mercifully unlocked. It smells of musty hay and horse shit, but at least he won’t freeze to death outside. He grabs a few hours of sleep, just enough that he isn’t dead on his feet, and heads towards the city square to ask around about traveling merchants.

By midafternoon, he’s had no luck, and his stomach is starting to cramp with hunger. Unfortunately, he also has no coin, since the banquet gig was more about exposure than making money, and he had already been hard pressed for coin after having to pay out the nose for a good tailor.

In fact, he had mostly paid the tailor in rubies, arguing that he could sew them onto some clothes and then sell the clothes for absolutely exorbitant prices.

Shit. Geralt probably smelled the blood then, too. He’s been smelling Jaskier’s blood every time he’s been forced to pay in rubies, probably, but why didn’t he say anything?

Jaskier doesn’t think that he knows about the curse; he was concerned about Jaskier bringing danger upon them, not about taking advantage of the golden goose he’s been traveling with—ever the practical, logical witcher.

So Jaskier has that going for him, at least. He’s broke, homeless, and shit out of luck, but hey, at least he doesn’t have a witcher hunting him down so that he can harvest his blood for money. A bitter laugh forces itself out of his throat. How has his entire life collapsed in one shitty night?

And it takes three whole weeks, three weeks of sleeping in stables and reopening wounds for rubies, three weeks to find a caravan going even remotely in the direction of Toussaint; it seems that rising tensions in the Nilfgaardian Empire mean trade in the south has declined.

But by the end of spring, he’s finally reached Beauclair, and he spends a whirlwind summer deep in romance with the Countess de Stael. Their spark never died, apparently, and Jaskier revels in having found a wonderful muse to replace Geralt, better than Geralt could ever hope to be.

He lives in the lap of luxury for nine months before he starts to get the itch to travel again. He’s always loved the adventure of the open road, of course, but more than that, he’s always wary of staying in one place for too long—maybe he’s running from ghosts, but in the back of his mind, he’s always fearful that his father is hot on his heels. 

He brings up the idea of leaving to the Countess, just for a quick jaunt, but she doesn’t take it well. She asks if he was ever planning on staying, but then apparently decides she doesn’t want an answer to that and tosses him out. There are very many harsh words thrown about, as well as some vases. He leaves her with two hefty rubies as a parting gift, a sorry-to-break-your-heart apology, and departs with the last snow.

He wanders vaguely north, eager to escape the stifling heat and humidity of southern summers, and, just his fucking luck, runs into Geralt near Rinde. He’s too drunk to do the smart thing and leave, and instead wants to see how much he can bother Geralt before he’s chased off.

He rambles on and on, intermittently taking sips of vodka from the flask he’s carrying. He just wants something, any sort of reaction from Geralt, who is too engrossed in his attempts at fishing to really pay attention to Jaskier. And that hurts, a bit, because while they had parted less-than-amicably, they were travel partners—dare he even say,  _ friends _ —for over a decade. He wants something more than grunts, dammit, even if it’s just another argument.

Eventually, Geralt lets spill that he can’t sleep, which, despite his hurt, makes Jaskier worry. Geralt usually sleeps light, the habit of a monster hunter who lives on the road, but he still needs rest. To hear him this frazzled must mean that this sleeplessness has plagued him for a long time.

“What’s going on, Geralt? Talk to me.” He leans against a stump, pleased when Geralt finally looks up at him for the first time. His hair is wild with tangles and his eyes are a fevered amber.

“A djinn,” Geralt says, which answers exactly zero questions. Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s ever heard of a real encounter with one, but then, he’s seen many impossible things in his travels.

The djinn, too, turns out to be real when Geralt fishes its amphora out of the river. Well, Jaskier certainly knows what he’ll be wishing for. “Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck down with apoplexy and die.” Serves him right, the backstabbing, pompous arse. “Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with glee, open arms, and very little clothing.” He has to have somewhere to go to when this encounter inevitably blows up in his face. His third wish, of course, would be for his curse to be lifted; his father might stop his dogged pursuit if there were no wealth to be gained from it, and he could truly know whether he actually has some use to the people in his life, besides being an instant source of wealth.

He shouldn’t have left the most important for last. Geralt stops him with a fist in the back of his doublet and a wish for ‘some damn peace’. Jaskier would be offended by that if he weren’t suddenly occupied by the feeling of something forcing its way up his throat, cutting off his air and his words.

He doubles over, clutching at his throat, tasting blood. No. No. He can’t let it hit the ground, can’t let the rubies fall, Geralt will see, he’ll  _ know— _

He can’t stop it, can’t stop the fountain of blood that pours out of his lips. He watches hazily, as if through a lens, as it hardens into rubies of all sizes, some nearly as large as his palm. They would be worth a  _ fortune.  _ He could buy anything in the world with them.

So he’s confused when Geralt only gives them a quick glance, brow furrowed, before looping Jaskier’s arm around his shoulders and half-dragging him towards Roach. Jaskier tries to say something, a question, a protest, he doesn’t know what, but the only thing that comes out is more blood.

Everything comes in fractured moments after that. A trail of rubies, leading all the way from the riverside to the town, like something out of a fairytale. An elven healer, saying he’s going to  _ die,  _ and Jaskier almost breaks down into tears. He’s too young to die, and he hasn’t made up with Geralt, and he hasn’t ever truly escaped his beginnings, he’s spent his entire life running scared—

“We won’t let that happen,” Geralt soothes, and it sounds forced but it’s comforting all the same, as is the hand gently stroking up and down his back. 

Then they’re inside an ornate manor with a  _ very  _ naked man standing in front of them. It feels like a dream, completely nonsensical, and Jaskier hysterically wonders if this means he’s closer to death.

The dream turns nicer but no less bizarre; his head is pillowed on a stranger’s breasts, in the middle of an orgy, and he wishes he could do anything but sit there and wheeze. If these are his last moments, he wants to enjoy them.

A terrifyingly attractive woman approaches—she must be the mage—and presses two fingertips to his head. Everything goes dark.

\--

Geralt instantly regrets his wish the moment he says it. He doesn’t panic when Jaskier starts choking, but it’s a near thing. Witchers don’t panic, he reminds himself, and holds Jaskier up when he collapses, clutching at his neck. Blood pours out, and Geralt worries about internal damage, about organs liquifying into gory soup and being expelled out of Jaskier’s poor abused throat.

Jaskier needs to see a healer as soon as possible, before he loses too much blood. Geralt examines the ground, trying to see how much he’s already coughed out, and blinks at what he sees. Dozens, maybe even  _ hundreds  _ of rubies lie in piles at their feet. He watches with disbelief as they pile up, clinking against each other. It makes no sense. Why would the djinn make Jaskier vomit up rubies?

He has no time to ponder the  _ why _ s of the situation, though; he knows that whatever is happening is his fault and it’s his job to fix it.

He spares half a thought to regret leaving so much wealth behind as he pulls Jaskier onto Roach behind him. He quickly discards that thought, though, berating himself for thinking about money when Jaskier is in mortal danger. There’s also a strong possibility that the gems are cursed; djinns aren’t known for their generosity. Anyone with any sense who saw a mountain’s worth of unattended, unclaimed gems would hopefully leave them be out of fear or superstition.

Jaskier leaks rubies all the way to Chireadan’s tent. His breathing is getting worse, Geralt notes with displeasure. Chireadan gives him a potion to slow down the curse’s spread, gives them time to find this mage he speaks of. As Geralt picks up Jaskier and leaves the tent, he yells behind him, “Don’t touch the rubies.” The elf seemed smart enough, but he can never be too careful with curses.

The mage, Yennefer, would be intimidating to any mortal man. As it stands, Geralt is very, very aware that she’s the difference between life and death for Jaskier, and makes an effort to be polite.

She places Jaskier in a deep healing sleep and orders Geralt to place him on the bed to rest. He looks small and out of place there, a bedraggled, bloody bard among silk sheets and overstuffed pillows. He’ll be fine. He has to be fine. Yennefer is a talented mage, and the only traces of any curse at all are the trickles of dried blood on his chin. He just needs to sleep it off.

He leaves Jaskier to rest, as she ordered, and joins her in the bath. Every moment with her is electrifying; Geralt is instantly hooked on her every alluring action. He’s so taken with her that he doesn’t notice her slipping past his defenses until it’s too late.

\--

Yennefer is bored. She left Aedirn’s court hoping for something more fulfilling in life, but stuck in a backwater town in Temeria, selling minor charms and magical baubles, she can’t help but wish for something to break the tedium.

_ Something  _ comes in the form of a witcher and a bard riding up to her front door, seeking help for a djinn’s curse. She’s intrigued by them both—the witcher, immune to her magic, and the bard, absolutely swimming in magical residue.

Plus, the witcher brought her apple juice, which she has a particular weakness for. She’s interested.

She puts the bard to sleep—easier to examine the tendrils of magic wrapped around him if he isn’t fighting or distracting her all the while. The witcher—Geralt—carries him into her bedroom, and she sends him away to bathe so she can concentrate.

Her mind dives into solving the problem, her senses feeling around the magic he’s under. She imagines it like a tangle of vines, sees them slowly strangling the life out of him. It takes some effort—djinn magic is powerful and tricky—but she banishes them, sitting back in exhausted satisfaction.

But he still reeks of magic. She frowns, takes another look, sees a second curse lying over every inch of his skin, clinging to him like crepe paper. For all of its perceived frailty, though, she cannot penetrate it. It bends around her prodding senses, adaptable but resilient.

She’s too drained at the moment to make a serious attempt at finding out what it is, never mind breaking it. She can ask him about it when he wakes up; she would love the chance to solve this new mystery, stave off her boredom for a bit more.

She makes her way to join Geralt in the bath; it’s a lovely time, in fact. He has the same dry sense of humor as her, and he certainly isn’t hard on the eyes, either.

He’ll also do quite nicely as a tool for taking her revenge. She calls it his payment and slides into his mind, sending him off on her errand.

The bath rejuvenated her, and she feels ready once again to take on the world. A plan is forming in her mind quite nicely; lift the bard’s crepe-paper curse, win his gratitude—or debt—and take his last djinn-wish as payment for services rendered.

She perches on the side of the bed, reaching out again with her mind to nudge the curse into action. The echo of blood magic reaches her; a curse made by blood? Or a curse  _ on  _ his blood?

She opens her eyes again, grabbing her steel dagger off her bedside table. She pricks his arm, just enough to draw blood.

It drips slowly down, pooling at his elbow, soaking into the bedspread, and although she can feel the magical potential within it, it seems…unfinished, somehow. So a curse  _ on _ his blood, then, but inactive unless under certain conditions. She’ll get further faster by simply asking him about it, at this point, and wakes him up with a flick of her fingers. She keeps the dagger in hand for extra encouragement.

He wakes up slowly, squinting at her. “Not to be untoward, but did we…” he trails off, looking uncomfortable.

“You’re cursed,” she states plainly. “Give me your last wish and I’ll help you lift it.”

The blood drains from his face so fast she’s surprised he doesn’t faint. He sputters indignantly, not getting any real words out, scrambling back against the headboard as fast as he can. He notices his arm, then, still bleeding sluggishly, and looks up at her with something approaching horror in his eyes.

“What do you want?” he whispers. Yennefer would feel pity for him, if such emotions hadn’t been crushed out of her by Aretuza decades ago.

She keeps her voice level. “I told you, I want your last wish. Grant it to me, and I will lift your curse and then leave you be.” She’s skimmed his mind, knows that it’s what he wants most of all—to be normal, to live a life not haunted by his past, to finally be free of this godsdamned curse. 

He still looks suspicious, but she can tell he’s buying into the idea. “And how would I go about doing that?” he asks flatly. “Last time I tried to order a djinn to do anything, it didn’t turn out well for me.”

“I can take ownership of it if I catch it when it appears to grant your last wish.” What she doesn’t mention is that it’s extremely dangerous, but she is nothing if not determined. “Make your wish, bard.”

“Umm… I wish for—I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Yennefer.”

“I wish for Yennefer to get whatever her heart desires,” he tries.

Nothing happens. The wind blows the trees around a little outside the window, but there’s no darkening of the sky, no great gust of air like at the riverside.

“Umm… maybe it’s taking a nap?” Jaskier suggests, looking more and more apprehensive with each moment that passes.

She doesn’t even deign to respond to that. She once again reaches out with her magic, throwing out all of her senses far and wide in search of the djinn. She can’t find any trace of it, until—

Her mind’s eye passes over the town, the prison, specifically, and finds a smoky residue. A wish was granted there, and recently—but the bard has been here the whole time.

“You’re not the one with the wishes,” she breathes, opening her eyes again. She grips her dagger tighter. He notices and scrambles off the bed, falling to the floor in his haste.

“Look, I am so sorry, but I’ve just remembered I left my…cat on the…stove. I—I really must be going,” he rambles, clumsily pulling on his boots on his way out the door.

She lets him go; he’s useless now that she knows he holds no power over the djinn. She focuses her senses outwards again, but at that moment she feels another presence enter the manor grounds. Geralt is back, storming up the stairs in those great heavy boots of his.

And he’s brought a guest. Yennefer can see it now, the miasma of magical smoke and fog that trails faintly after the witcher. The djinn’s influence.

“Yennefer, what the fuck did you do?” he demands as he bursts through the door. 

“Took my payment,” she coldly replies, “that you owed me for helping the bard.”

“I never agreed to—”

“You agreed to pay my price, did you not? Now, I propose another transaction. Your bard has another curse on him, that I will lift, if you grant me your last wish.”

He looks at her like she’s grown two heads. “Another curse? You laid another curse on him?” he shouts. “I came to you so you could lift the magic surrounding him, not so that you could bargain with a man’s life.”

The accusation rankles her. “I did no such thing,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes. “From the looks of it, he’s had this one his entire life.”

He is calmed by that, but his brow is still furrowed. “That’s impossible,” he argues. “I would have noticed if he were cursed.”

“Well, clearly you didn’t,” she bites, then softens her tone in an attempt to win him over. “It’s a blood curse; it’s not surprising it slipped your notice. They’re notoriously hard to break and can carry through multiple generations without ever being detected.”

He looks at her, still untrusting, which is fair, considering she took over his mind not too long ago. She doesn’t have the patience to talk in circles with him, though; she forces his hand. “This is a one-time offer, Geralt. Your djinn for his curse,” she says, voice hard and eyes steel.

“Fine,” he bites out, turning on his heel. He goes out to the yard and returns with the bard in his wake, scruffed by the collar. He’s throwing up as much of a fuss as a kitten dropped into a bathtub.

“Geralt! Let me go! Leave the sexy but terrifying witch alone and  _ let’s get out of here!”  _ His efforts have about as much effect as that same kitten trying to attack a brick wall.

“You're cursed, Jaskier,” he says gently, as if the bard hadn’t known before. “Blood curses are dangerous magic. Yennefer can help.” He glares at her, as if daring her to argue.

“It’s—it’s  _ none of your business!  _ I thought we had this conversation already!” He’s panting now, exhausted by his frantic efforts to get away.

“What do you mean, we had this conversation already? You never told me you were fucking cursed, Jaskier!” Geralt shouts.

“You said you knew about the blood!”

“I thought—gods, Jaskier, I thought you were hurting yourself!”

Jaskier slumps in his hold like a puppet with its strings cut. “I had to,” he says. “I needed the money. Barding doesn’t pay well, you know.”

Geralt stands still, shocked into silence. Yennefer remembers the rubies she saw in the kitchen, leading up to her front door, and it clicks into place.

“Exchanging blood for rubies,” she muses, mind racing. “Probably has some sort of nasty catch to it, doesn’t it?”

“I—I don’t know,” Jaskier confesses. “I think there’s some sort of downside to it, where it can backfire. But not all the time—I don’t know how it works, really. And, I mean, it doesn’t exactly feel fantastic to be bled dry.”

“Let me see,” she commands, holding out the dagger. Geralt glares at her, and she glares right back. “If I’m to break this curse, I need to know how it works.”

Jaskier takes it with a heavy hand. His face is resigned, fully used to the pain of self-inflicted cuts. When the blade breaks the tender skin around his wrist, Geralt flinches, just a bit. Something old inside of Yennefer, too, flinches at the familiar movement. Jaskier, though, simply holds out his wrist, letting his blood drip onto the floorboards.

Yennefer feels the moment the curse activates, hardening the blood into gems. She also feels a pulse of magic from the medallion Geralt wears around his neck, and tucks that information away for later. She focuses her mind on the rubies on her floor.

They seem for the most part just like normal rubies. However, looking deeper, she can see the latent rules written into them; whoever would cause the bard harm purposely to attain them, or would in turn use their wealth to harm him, would be met with an evil fate of the same magnitude.

She bends down to pick one up, turning it this way and that to examine it from all angles. It catches and refracts light beautifully, and for a moment, she is reminded of her recent money troubles and feels tempted to take it. But she knows better, and lets it fall to the floor, harmless.

“They’re cursed, too,” she informs them. “If anyone hurts you to obtain them, that same hurt is turned around on them eventually. They have to be freely given to have any actual value.”

“Knew they were cursed,” he mutters to himself. “But you said you could break the curse,” he reminds her, and turns his big pleading eyes on her. 

“Yes, but the curse-breaking spell requires very rare ingredients. You’ll have to collect those yourself while I prepare to cast it.”

She gives them a list of everything she needs: a few rarer alchemical ingredients, a tome they should be able to find in the Great Library of Novigrad, and of course, one of Jaskier’s rubies—the size of his heart. She doesn’t know how they’ll pull that one off, but she supposes that if Jaskier truly wants to break the curse, he’ll be desperate enough to try anything.

Geralt sends the bard away, telling him to prepare his horse for their departure. He stays back, with her. “What is your wish?” he grinds out, looking pained.

“No, that’s not how this works. You must make your wish, and then while the djinn is occupied, I will take control of it.”

“Yennefer,  _ no.  _ You could die!” he growls, and it’s cute how determined he is to stop her.

“I could die at any moment, witcher. I must do this,” she says coldly. “And I will, with or without your permission.”

He studies her face, sees the resolve written there, and huffs, but gives in. “Djinn, I call upon you,” he calls, and only moments later, it arrives with its usual spectacle.

Yennefer activates her holding circle, instantly engaged in a clash of wills with the djinn that feels like playing tug-of-war with barbed wire. She grits her teeth and throws everything she has into wrestling it into submission, screaming with the effort.

She vaguely hears Geralt yell something, but pays him no mind, focused entirely on the battle taking place in her mind. She feels blood dripping from her eyes down her face, and to her horror, the djinn’s strength redoubles, grating over her nerves like ice.

She’s losing.

She doesn’t know what happens next. One minute, she’s throwing everything she has against the djinn, furiously reaching for every inch of her chaos deep inside. The next, it’s like a weight suddenly lifts off of her, leaving her feeling unbalanced and too big for her skin.

The djinn is gone, the whirlwind has died down, and she’s left with nothing. Nothing.

“Where—where did it go?” she pants, forcing herself upright.

Geralt rushes over to her, but she pushes him away. She’s so angry at him she could burn the world to the ground.

“What did you do? You stopped me, didn’t you? I nearly had it,” she bites.

“You had shit all. I saved your life!”

Oh, and what a noble protector he is. She could scream. “You let the djinn escape. Who knows what havoc it’ll wreak now that it has no vessel at all?”

They argue, and argue some more, and at some point her burning anger turns to burning passion, adrenaline still fizzing along her veins. The sex is some of the best she’s ever had, wild and reckless and mind-blowing.

Afterwards, after Geralt has woken from his impromptu nap, after she’s put herself back together, shoved her disappointment down deep, they exit the manor to find Jaskier and Chireadan hanging about in the yard. It’s an awkward tableau; Jaskier paces the edge of the gravel path, idly kicking at rocks, while Chireadan sits on a bench looking like a dog kicked by its master. She looks at him, raising an eyebrow. She knows the depth of his infatuation with her, and she’s not interested. He slumps and slinks away. Not her problem anymore.

Jaskier looks up at their approach. “You're alive. You're both alive,” and she doesn’t know if it’s relief or resentment in his voice when he says that. Judging by the terrified glare he throws her, probably a bit of both. “And the djinn?”

“Gone,” Geralt rumbles. “Ready to go?”

“Go—what do you mean gone? Just decided to fly away after nearly killing us all?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, not elaborating. Then he catches sight of Roach and immediately heads over to her. Which leaves Yennefer and Jaskier staring silently at each other.

There’s a tense few moments of them sizing each other up; Jaskier still looks at her with some fear, although it’s overshadowed by anger. She’s also angry, but not at him. She hasn’t decided yet whether to help him break the curse. She owes them nothing; with the djinn gone, they’ll have to think of another way to pay her. After all, nothing is free.

Jaskier is the one to break the silence. “Do you know how long I’ve tried to keep it a secret?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

“Your whole life?” she guesses, unimpressed. She crosses her arms.

“My whole life! My entire life, up in flames! Why would you tell him?” She feels the barest embers of pity stir in her heart. It surprises her; however, what surprises her more is what she says next.

“So you don’t want my help breaking your curse, then? Were you planning on hiding it until you died?”

He gapes at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Seems she’s struck him speechless.

She continues. “It’ll still cost you, of course. You may be pitiful, but you’re not pitiful enough to be a charity case. But we can call it a debt; you’ll both owe me several favors. Which I  _ will  _ collect.”

At that moment Geralt returns, probably having heard the entire conversation. “Deal,” he rumbles, briefly flashing his eyeteeth. “We’ll return when we’ve found the ingredients for the spell.”

“I look forward to it,” she purrs, and shockingly, it’s the truth. Her attention is utterly captivated by them.

She gives Geralt a xenovox, so they can contact each other long-distance without having to rely on letters. She then watches them leave, mind already buzzing with plans. First things first, though; she’ll have to find another house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer asks for Jaskier to hurt himself so that she can see how the curse works. if you want to skip it, skip from ""Let me see," she commands," until "Yennefer feels the moment the curse activates".


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings, this time!

Geralt lets Jaskier ride Roach as they leave the manor, so clearly, he still feels at least a little bad about the whole affair. The main emotion Jaskier is getting from him, though, is anger.

“You should have told me you were cursed,” Geralt growls for the umpteenth time.

Jaskier is so utterly done with this conversation. “Oh, really? And when would have been a good time, hmm? Should I have waltzed up to you in that tavern in Posada, introduced myself, ‘oh, hello, I’m Jaskier and I have a curse that makes me a highly valuable target for mugging and or kidnapping, nice to meet you?’ I’ve had to keep this secret my entire life, Geralt! So excuse the fuck out of me for not immediately spilling my life story to a stranger!”

“You could have told me later! You’re the one who keeps insisting that we’re friends.”

“Oh-ho ho,  _ no.  _ You do  _ not  _ get to play the friends card now! Not after a literal decade of denying it!”

That shuts Geralt up for a couple miles, and Jaskier sits uncomfortably in the silence he’s created, but refuses to back down. He’s nothing if not stubborn.

Eventually, Geralt caves. “I… understand why you felt like you had to keep it a secret,” he forces out, and it sounds almost painful. It’s an olive branch, though, and Jaskier is tired of arguing.

“No, I suppose you're right. Who better than a witcher to break a curse, am I right?”

Geralt  _ hmm _ s. They ride in silence for another short while.

“I wouldn’t hurt you. Because of the curse, or ever,” Geralt says stiffly.

“I know,” Jaskier answers, but he doesn’t know if Geralt believes him, or even if he believes himself. Intellectually, of  _ course  _ he doesn’t think Geralt would hurt him. But something deep in his gut clenches at the thought of  _ anyone  _ finding out. “It was just easier, never to tell anyone. No chance of it getting out, you know.”

“If you needed money, you could have said,” Geralt suddenly switches track.

Jaskier sighs. “Geralt, you're broke just as often as, if not more than, me.”

“I could have done something. Taken on more contracts, picked up odd jobs.” It’s unconvincing, and feels hollow as he says it.

“That’s a nice thought, but I’m used to it by now anyway. Practically an old hand at ruby dealing,” he tries to joke.

“Used to it? Gods, Jaskier, nothing about this is normal. How long…?” he trails off.

“It’s not normal, no, but it can be convenient.” Jaskier suddenly desperately does not want to be having this conversation. He usually deals with this by not thinking about it, and their talk is bringing up all sorts of dreadful feelings. He swallows down his nausea.

“How long have you been doing this, Jaskier?” Geralt persists.

“Well, I was about nine when we found out, I think, so that’s—”

“Nine?!” Geralt nearly pulls Roach to a stop, and Jaskier momentarily loses his balance. He’s only stopped from falling off the horse by Geralt’s quick hand shooting out to grab his waist.

“Well, yes. I told you how my mother and I ran away from home.” He frowns. “Starting an entirely new life isn’t cheap, you know.”

“Did she hurt you? Or did she make you do it yourself?” Geralt’s voice is tight, as is his grip around the reins.

“Gods, no! She wouldn’t. She just… took advantage of an unfortunate situation, is all.” He forces himself to keep his voice deceptively light for this next part. “My father was just a bastard who would regularly beat me bloody, and, well, she couldn’t turn down free money. She did it for my own good,” he argues.

“If she was really invested in your wellbeing, she never would have let you get hurt in the first place,” Geralt snarls.

How many times has he said the same thing to himself, only to immediately shut down that line of thought? “She’s my  _ mother,  _ Geralt,” Jaskier says icily. “She did the best she could with a bad situation, and I will  _ not  _ let you talk about her like that.” If he starts questioning his entire childhood, he’s really going to lose it, and then that will be the second traumatic emotional event for the day.

Geralt, thankfully, drops the subject. They reach the town proper of Rinde just before sunset. Jaskier is about to pay the innkeeper for a room when Geralt shoulders past him, dropping his own coin purse on the counter, ignoring Jaskier’s protests.

“I can pay.” What, just because he’s cursed, he’s now suddenly a damsel in distress who can’t even provide for himself?

Geralt ignores him and glares at the innkeeper until she accepts his money and hands over the key to their room. Jaskier is herded upstairs, feeling more and more like a sheep under the careful watch of a dog at every step. It gets unbearable when Geralt settles into a chair in the corner and then proceeds to do nothing but stare at Jaskier.

“I’m not a child, Geralt. I’ve been doing just fine looking after myself for thirty-four years,” he hisses, abruptly fed up with this change in Geralt’s behavior.

“So fine that you’ve been bleeding yourself dry just to make a living?” comes Geralt’s dry retort.

“See, this? This is why I didn’t tell you! You’re making a bigger deal out of it than it has to be!” Jaskier is absolutely sick of arguing, but even more so, he’s sick of being treated like an invalid who can’t make his own decisions. “I’m going downstairs.  _ Don’t  _ follow me.” He slams the door on his way out, taking petty satisfaction in it.

Geralt wisely stays in the room, even though he can probably hear everything in the entire inn with his witcher hearing. Regardless, Jaskier has a wonderful night, complete with plenty of wine, because if there’s one thing he’s earned today, it’s the right to get absolutely shitfaced.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he looks up to find the very last patrons staggering off to bed, leaving him the last man standing. With a jolt he realizes the sky outside is lightening, and birds are beginning to sing.

He stands with a groan, stretching his arms high above his head. He wishes he had another bed to fall into, doesn’t want to go back to their shared room and have to face Geralt’s inevitable disappointment. There’s nothing for it, though, and at least he’s still drunk enough that everything is dull around the edges.

He pushes open the door to find Geralt meditating, not asleep. His eyes open and fall on Jaskier, leaning drunkenly in the doorway. Neither says anything, and eventually Jaskier breaks the staring match to stumble towards his bed, collapsing on it face-first. He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to get undressed and wash his face and tuck himself into bed.

It’s as if Geralt can hear his thoughts. “Get in bed, Jaskier,” he rumbles.

“Don’ wanna,” he slurs, but heaves himself up with a groan, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. That’s as far as he gets before forgetting what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s too tired for this.

Geralt sighs and crosses the room, kneeling down in front of Jaskier. Jaskier’s brain is confused. One half goes  _ ooh, yes please,  _ but the other half goes,  _ no, we’re mad at him, remember? _

“Leg up,” Geralt says, tapping his knee. He pulls off Jaskier’s boots, one after another, tossing them somewhere next to the bed. Jaskier could protest at their rough treatment, but fuck it. It’s not like they don’t get worse treatment on the road.

He flops backwards on the bed, scooting up when Geralt prods him to move. “Gonna tuck me in?” he asks cheekily.

“No,” Geralt grunts, and throws a wadded-up blanket at Jaskier's chest.

“Arse,” Jaskier mutters, wrestling with the blanket until it covers most of his body. Whatever. He doesn’t even hear if Geralt responds before he's out like a light.

\--

Jaskier sorely,  _ sorely  _ regrets his night when Geralt wakes him scarcely a few hours later. The hangover hits him full force, reminding him rather rudely that he's not as young as he used to be.

“Get up. We have to make it to Mahakam by the end of the week.” Geralt tosses a change of clothes at him, which he makes no effort to catch.

“What’s in Mahakam?” Jaskier asks in a dull voice. He can’t muster any enthusiasm in the wake of his headache, and their fight.

“Mountain bloodmoss. One of the components for Yen’s spell.”  _ Oh, she’s Yen, now, is she?  _ a vicious little voice in the back of Jaskier’s head pipes up.

His rotten mood lasts all week, and rubs off on Geralt, too, until the two of them are absolutely miserable with the tension he’s created. Every interaction feels like waiting for a thunderstorm, the air charged with humid electricity.

On the bright side, once they leave Mahakam and visit an alchemist in Temeria, they’ve collected all of the alchemical ingredients Yennefer needs. Now all that’s left is the book and the ruby.

Yennefer told them to look in the Great Library of Novigrad for the book, so that’s where they head next. Their path brings them through Oxenfurt, in fact. The prospect of visiting his alma mater briefly makes Jaskier forget his black mood.

“I studied at Oxenfurt, you know. Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, that’s me.” He points a thumb at himself. “I wonder if Priscilla is still there? She graduated right after me, but took on a job guest lecturing…” He launches into an impressive one-sided conversation all about his time at Oxenfurt, reminiscing and ranting in turn.

“Gods forbid we run into Valdo Marx, though. Did I ever tell you what an ass he is? He’s  _ such  _ an ass.”

“Your first wish. You tried to have him killed,” Geralt snorts.

“And he deserved it.” Jaskier proceeds to regale Geralt with the story of his terrible betrayal at the hands of the cur Valdo Marx. He tries to make it outrageous and humorous, but as he goes on he realizes it’s mostly just coming out sad. “He did one good thing, at least. It’s because of him that I found out about the diamonds.”

“The diamonds?”  _ Oh shit. _

“Umm… nothing.” He’s too slow to think of a lie before Geralt is pulling Roach to a halt, rounding on Jaskier with a thunderous look on his face.

“Tell me, Jaskier. It could be important.”

Jaskier sighs, already giving up. Geralt already knows about the rubies; what harm could telling him about the diamonds do? “Sometimes my tears turn into diamonds. Well, I say sometimes. Once. It hasn’t happened since.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this?” Geralt sighs.

“Like I said, it only happened once.” Jaskier kicks idly at the dirt as he walks. He makes a game out of it, scuffing up a pattern along the road, and it means that he can focus on something other than Geralt’s heavy amber gaze on him.

He passes the entire journey to the city that way, but when the familiar aroma of baked goods, laundry, and too many humans packed together hits him, he raises his head. The comforting sights and sounds do wonders to lift his mood, and within minutes, he’s back to excitedly chattering away.

Jaskier even convinces Geralt to stop in the market on their way to the library, where Jaskier buys them both crème pastries that were a particular favorite of his as a student, especially on mornings he woke up with a hangover.

They’re delicious; Jaskier licks the last of the sugar from his fingers as they walk into the library, ignoring the look Geralt shoots him. He walks straight up to the ancient librarian and asks after any magical texts they might have.

“I’m sorry, sir. All magical texts have been purged as per the orders of King Radovid. Says they promote dark sorcery and evil philosophies.”

“Purged—what do you mean, purged?”

She looks at him over the top of her spectacles. “I mean burnt.”

Well, that puts an abrupt end to that. They exit the library back out to bright noontime sunlight. “So that was a bust. But there’s sure to be other copies, right?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt only hums and unties Roach from her post. The streets are crowded this time of day; it means that Geralt leads Roach while Jaskier trails behind him, occasionally getting lost in the throng before resurfacing again.

Jaskier only loses sight of Geralt for a moment; three washerwomen shoulder past carrying enormous baskets of laundry, blocking white hair and black leather from view. He feels someone behind him bump his shoulder, hard enough to knock him off balance. He turns around to glare, maybe throw a few choice words, but suddenly finds himself at a loss for words.

It’s Valdo  _ fucking  _ Marx. “Julian! What a surprise. Here for the annual bardic competition?” Ah, fuck. With everything else going on, the festival completely slipped his mind. He would have normally avoided Oxenfurt at such a busy time, and now he’s regretting it immensely. 

“Valdo,” Jaskier returns coldly. “Still stuck at Oxenfurt? Pity, but I suppose we can’t all become famous traveling bards.”

“Unlike you, I have a healthy appreciation for my roots.” At that, his smile grows wider. “In fact, I know an old friend who would be  _ delighted  _ to see you.” Valdo lunges for his arm and starts dragging him through the streets, back the way he came. Away from Geralt. 

“Let go, you horse’s ass!” Jaskier yells, but can’t shake the way Valdo’s fingernails dig into his skin. He’s pulled along, stumbling, to the other side of the plaza, where he freezes at the sight that greets him. 

There stands his father, deep in conversation with another finely-dressed noble he doesn’t recognize. Jaskier should run, should fight, should do  _ anything  _ other than stand there like a stump. 

He doesn’t. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Valdo, still with that self-satisfied smirk. “Excuse me, my lord,” he interrupts, “but there’s someone here who would just  _ love  _ to see you.” 

Jaskier watches as his father rolls his eyes, turns to look at them. He’s not a man used to being interrupted, and his irritation is bitingly familiar. 

Jaskier means to turn around, to run, to yell for Geralt,  _ anything,  _ but it’s like his feet have been glued to the ground. He’s twelve again, completely at the mercy of his father’s fists. He watches with horror as slow recognition finds its place on his father’s face.

“Julian,” he breathes. Then he turns to the swordsmen at his side, two burly men Jaskier hadn’t taken notice of before. “Grab him,” he orders, “quickly, before he gets away. He’s a slippery one.” The recognition and borderline glee that he showed before have been replaced with a flat, clinical stare that scares him more than anything else.

Jaskier only finds his voice as four firm hands wrap themselves around his arms. “No, no, you can’t—please, no—” His voice escalates until he’s shouting. “Geralt! Geralt—please, no, don’t do this!”

No one even bats an eye at his struggles.  _ Fucking  _ Oxenfurt. He continues to kick and yell, knows he’s only tiring himself out, but refuses to go without a fight. He will not be taken back to Lettenhove, back to a life of abuse that will slowly crush the will to live out of him. It doesn’t take long for his father to grow annoyed, and he has the men stuff a gag into his mouth. By then, they’re outside the city walls, and they throw him over the back of a horse, securing his wrists to the saddle and his feet to the stirrups with lengths of rope.

He struggles anyway, spooking the horse badly enough that it almost throws him. He gets a blow to the back of the head for that, and it dazes him enough that he goes limp and quiet, stars bursting behind his eyelids.

When he regains his senses, he sits up slowly, dizzy and with his stomach threatening mutiny. He breathes deeply, as best he can through the linen stuffed in his mouth.

“See, Julian? You know the rules. I expect better behavior out of you when we return home.” Jaskier can’t even reply to the smug asshole, and he knows it. It’s infuriating. 

As they ride, his father takes great joy in explaining, in detail, the sort of treatment Jaskier can expect once they arrive at Lettenhove. He keeps his voice low, so the guards surrounding them don’t hear, but Jaskier can hear him perfectly well, and involuntarily shivers at some of the things his father describes.  _ Chains, knives, pain pain pain.  _ “You’ll be exactly what we need, won’t you, Julian?” Jaskier doesn’t show any reaction, and thankfully, his father falls silent.

Jaskier slumps in the saddle eventually, exhausted after so much adrenaline racing through his system. All he feels is dread, dread at the thought of going ‘home,’ as his father puts it.

He knows that once they reach the manor, his only hope is Geralt. Geralt, who’s mad at him, and might decide that he’s finally become more trouble than he’s worth. That he ought to be left to his own messes, rather than making Geralt clean up after him.

_ Geralt, please come, please find me,  _ he begs the universe. He prays to every god he knows, but it doesn’t distract him from the yawning chasm opening up in his heart.

He sits in his saddle and prays.

\--

The Oxenfurt crowds are near overwhelming to Geralt’s witcher senses. It’s all he can do to narrow his eyes against the glare, inhale through his mouth to avoid breathing in the smells of the city, try and block out the noise assaulting his eardrums.

He knows that Jaskier is following closely behind him, and concentrates mostly on keeping Roach calm amidst the bustle around them. She’s usually good about not panicking, but he’s not taking any chances.

He’s so focused on Roach, he only notices that he’s lost Jaskier when he gets to the city gate. He isn’t too worried; Jaskier is very easily distracted, and probably saw someone he knows, or stopped to duck into a shop along the way. He’ll wait for Jaskier here, away from the crowds, where it’ll be easier to spot his distinctive build and features.

Ten minutes pass, and Geralt begins to get annoyed. He leaves Roach near the city gate, and plunges back into the chaos so he can drag his bard out of whatever pitfall he’s fallen into.

He catches the faint scent of chamomile and lemon balm, two things he associates with Jaskier. He wouldn’t normally be able to pick up individual fragrances in a city like this, but he’s been traveling with Jaskier for so long that he could pick him out anywhere.

He follows his nose until he reaches an area where the scent grows stronger, spiked with the acrid smell of fear. Something is wrong.

He doesn’t smell any blood or pain, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about that. The road is unpaved, so he’s able to discern tracks in the mud—two heavy sets flanking a lighter third. The owner of the third set went unwillingly; their struggles disturbed the mud.

Jaskier has been taken.

He follows the tracks to the edge of the city, where mud turns to hard-packed earth and the footprints vanish. It’s been too long now for Jaskier's scent to have lingered. He’s lost the trail.

He tries to think, tries not to panic. He can’t simply follow the road; it almost immediately splits off into two, leading in completely opposite directions. He’ll have to be smart about this.

First things first, he collects Roach. It wouldn’t do to have a horse thief nab her while he’s left her unattended. She whinnies when he returns, looking at him judgingly as if to ask,  _ Where’s Jaskier?  _ “I’ll find him,” he promises, stroking a hand down her snout.

His first thought is to contact Yennefer; surely she has a charm or a spell she could use to find Jaskier. Rinde is several days’ ride away, though, and she might not even be willing to help. He already owes her several favors for breaking the curse, and he doesn’t think her charity will extend as far as helping him locate Jaskier. So she’s out.

His next thought is Oxenfurt University. Jaskier has told him many tales of his time at university, including the many enemies he’s made. Perhaps one of them has taken him.

As he rides up to the university, a shout halts him in his tracks. “Witcher!”

He turns. Running towards him is a blonde woman in a troubadour’s outfit, complete with feathered cap. “You are a witcher, aren’t you? You look just like Jaskier said,” she enthuses, catching up to him.

“Yes, I’m a witcher,” he answers stiffly. Even after a decade, he’s still not used to the more positive reactions people who’ve heard the songs show him. “Who are you?”

“Oh, apologies. I’m Priscilla, also known by my stage name, the Callonetta. I’m a friend of Jaskier’s.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t know why any friend of Jaskier’s would be approaching him.

Without him even having to ask, she answers his question. “Can we talk privately? We can go to my rooms on campus, follow me.” She leads him to a set of cozy rooms, well-insulated, and shuts the door behind him. “I’m worried about Jaskier. Has he told you anything of his father?”

“Some. That he was an abusive whoreson, mainly.”

“Yes, that’s the heart of it. He ran away, you know. His father’s been looking for him ever since. Comes to Oxenfurt every summer in the hopes of finding him here. Now, I don’t know what he looks like, but I’ve heard talk that the Count de Lettenhove will arrive this week or the next.” She takes a deep breath. “If you’re here, Jaskier is sure to be nearby. He needs to be warned—needs to get out of town, quickly. I’m sure you can take care of him, but better safe than sorry, yeah?”

Geralt feels his heart drop. Priscilla must read it on his face, because she pales. “No. Did he—he can’t have—” she breaks off, pressing a hand to her mouth as her eyes squeeze shut. She inhales sharply, then exhales slowly. It’s a breathing technique that Geralt recognizes; Jaskier does it whenever he’s trying not to let emotion overwhelm him.

He stands there, forcing his own roiling emotions down, as she does the same. When she opens her eyes again, he’s cleared his mind of everything but the hunt. That’s all this is: another missing person he needs to find.

“Find him, witcher. Find him and never let him go again,” she demands.

He will, no matter the cost. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's getting bad, folks. warnings for torture, both physical and mental. details in the end notes.

They take Jaskier straight to the manor’s cellar. What he remembers as being a well-supplied storage space has, over the years, been depleted, until the only things that remain are dusty shelves and bare walls, with the occasional empty barrel or chest scattered about. Cobwebs abound.

One thing is new, though; a sturdy steel door now blocks off one of the side pantries. His father wrenches the thick door open, and the smell of old cheese wafts out. Jaskier gags.

They throw him inside, but before he can do more than scramble to his hands and knees, there’s a heavy  _ clang _ behind him. The door is featureless from this side, no doorknob or lock that he can see. There’s only a slight indent near the top, which slides open to reveal a small window, through which his father peers down at him. “You can stay in there and think about what you’ve done while we prepare for you. You’ll be useful to me yet.” The window slides closed again, leaving Jaskier alone with only his thoughts and the overwhelming odor of cheese.

He had a lot of time to think on the ride to Lettenhove. There wasn’t much else to do, when he spent most of his time tied to a horse with the threat of another hit to the head if he got mouthy. Jaskier thinks it may be the longest he’s ever gone in his life without speaking.

But anyway, he had a lot of time to think. Specifically, he wondered how in the hell his father knows about his curse. His father has all sorts of plans for the curse, apparently, and he took great joy in sharing them with Jaskier on the journey to Lettenhove.

Even thinking about the delight in his father’s voice as he narrated all of his ideas is enough to make Jaskier shudder.

He sits himself against the wall opposite the door and settles in for a long wait. He has no idea when they could come back, but he wants to be alert when it happens. Maybe he’ll get lucky and they’ll underestimate him, and he can overpower them using self-defense he’s learned from Geralt.

_ As if,  _ he scoffs to himself. His father is many things, but stupid is not one of them. Surely he’ll take no chances with risking Jaskier’s escape.

They force him to wait in the dark for gods only know long. Hours, at least. He’s almost slipped into a doze, tired after many consecutive days of hard riding, when light suddenly floods the pantry as the door swings open. He hisses and holds up an arm in front of his face to block out the blinding light.

Two guards in black and maroon livery hoist him up by the arms. His legs have fallen asleep after so long sitting in one position, and so they have to drag him out of the pantry. He’s still squinting, eyes taking a minute to adjust, but even still he can see another renovation that’s been made to the cellar—two sets of manacles fastened to the wall, one near the ground, and one at waist-height.

Oh, he is  _ so  _ not going to enjoy this.

He struggles fruitlessly while they fasten the manacles around his wrists and ankles, but the guards might as well be mannequins, for all they react. They step back, leaving him pinned like an insect to the wall.

“You bastards! What kind of cowards are you, you—you cretins!” he shouts at their departing backs. He’s left alone again, but not for long; his father descends the stairs soon after.

“Julian,  _ must  _ you shout so? It really is so terribly grating on the ears, and terribly unbecoming of a noble, besides.”

_ “Don’t call me that,”  _ Jaskier hisses. “It’s  _ Jaskier, _ and I’m no noble. I’m no son of yours.”

“You may think so, but you’re wrong. Blood never lies,” his father retorts. “And it’s your blood I’m interested in, after all.” He pulls a hunting knife out from a sheathe at his hip, the blade gleaming wickedly in the flickering torchlight.

Jaskier forces himself not to move as his father approaches, not wanting to give the cruel bastard the satisfaction of seeing him scared.

And gods, is he scared. It’s not the pain that scares him; he’s so used to knife cuts that their familiar pain borders on boring. No, he’s scared of the black emptiness in his father’s eyes. A man with no love in his life, driven only by greed, long past the point of reason. In that moment, Jaskier  _ knows,  _ with utter certainty, that his father will do  _ anything  _ for his blood.

He cuts Jaskier on the forearm first. It isn’t shallow, by any means, but at least he doesn’t puncture any arteries. Jaskier watches the blood roll down his wrist, dripping down his fingers and landing near his feet. Jaskier can hear the telltale clinks of rubies hitting the ground.

“By the gods, he wasn’t lying,” his father breathes, standing mesmerized by the gems.

_ Pick them up, please, let this fucking curse work in my favor for once,  _ Jaskier pleads. He hasn’t forgotten Yennefer’s words; the same hurt, turned around on the one who harms him. Maybe his father will think twice on his cruel plans if he realizes the harm that will come to him.

Unfortunately, because Jaskier is just  _ shit  _ out of luck these days, his father leaves the rubies where they fall. Instead, he adjusts his grip on the knife, and paints a similar wound on Jaskier’s other arm. Then three more quick cuts, after that;  _ slice, slice, slice.  _ Like macabre tally marks on his skin, counting the hurts his father has done to him.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut on the last cut, willing tears not to rise. He will  _ not  _ give that bastard the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Not after an entire childhood of pain and tears.

Drip, drip, drip. Ruby after ruby after ruby. Jaskier swears, when he gets out of here, he never wants to see another ruby again.

Eventually, when his arms’ steady throbbing becomes nigh unbearable and his head starts to spin, his father wipes his knife clean and sheathes it. Thank the gods.

“That’ll have to do for now. Can’t be bleeding you dry, after all; I just got you back!” He chuckles. “Sleep well, Julian.” And he disappears up the stairs.

Jaskier is starting to get quite worried. Does his father mean to just leave him here to bleed out?  _ Surely  _ that would defeat the entire purpose. He doesn’t look forward to more of this torturous treatment, but he doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want to die alone, in a shitty basement, the life slowly bleeding out of him.

His worries of an untimely death are ultimately unfounded. A slight woman, someone he’s never seen before, descends the stairs with a bowl of water and bandages in hand. A healer.

“Hello. What’s your name?” he tries. If he can gain her sympathy, show her what a madman his father really is, maybe…

But she doesn’t respond, doesn’t even  _ look  _ at him. She focuses entirely on cleaning and bandaging his arms, ignoring his every attempt to catch her attention.

Once his arms have been tightly bound, she too leaves, and Jaskier wonders if he’s meant to spend the entire night chained up against a wall. His legs will start to get tired soon, for one. And he  _ really  _ needs to piss.

He waits there for nearly an hour, singing every tavern ditty he can think of, at the top of his lungs. If he’s not getting any sleep, then no one else is, either. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s being a pest.

He’s in the middle of  _ Fishmonger’s Daughter  _ when two guards—not the same ones that brought him here, he notices—come in and unchain him.

“Finally!” he crows. “Those really are terrible for the circulation. Zero out of ten, would not recommend, sorry.”

The soldiers, predictably, ignore him. He wonders if they’re under orders not to talk to him. “Hey, are you under orders not to talk to me?” he asks as they once again drag him to his pantry. “Blink once for yes, twice for hell yes.” No response, not even a blink.

“I bet you lads are  _ great  _ at Gwent, with faces like that,” he calls after them, door swinging shut with a massive  _ clang.  _ And he's once again left alone in the dark.

\--

He sleeps uneasily that night, maybe because of the  _ gaping wounds in his arms, thanks so much.  _ He tosses and turns, biting back gasps as one wrong move has pain flaring up bright through his veins. He does manage to snatch a couple hours of rest, and by morning—or at least, by what he  _ thinks  _ is morning, judging by the meal of bread and water they drop off—the pain has dulled down to a background ache that he can ignore if he’s not thinking about it.

Unfortunately, he’s so bored that there’s not much to do  _ besides  _ think about it. He sighs and rolls over, scratching idly at the bandages. They're barely on the wrong side of too tight, his fingers slowly purpling in the night; he hopes he won’t have permanent damage.

His train of thought wanders over to Geralt. He’ll arrive at Lettenhove any moment, surely. He’ll burst through the door in a wave of fury, pure reckless anger at the thought of his best friend being hurt. He’ll effortlessly kill every guard that’s foolish enough to attack him—Jaskier has seen him cut down scores of men at once before. Then he’ll burst into the cellar, and Jaskier will be very grateful to see him, but will  _ not  _ break down into tears at the welcome sight of him. They’ll have a joyful reunion, and Jaskier will apologize for all the fighting they’ve been doing recently—as will Geralt, and Jaskier will graciously accept his apology—and together they’ll set off back on the Path, and get rid of his curse once and for all.

That’s how he amuses himself through the long, dark hours. He loses all sense of time; with no window, it’s not as if he can track the passage of the sun, and he only knows by the grumbling of his stomach that it’s been hours since they brought him his morning meal.

What do they plan to do with him? Surely yesterday wasn’t enough for his father; Jaskier expected to be strung up again already. Perhaps they're giving him time to heal? Thoughtful of them. He has a feeling, though, that it’s not out of interest for his wellbeing. It’s more likely they don’t want him to die of blood loss, and are giving his body the chance to regenerate everything he’s lost so far.

His theory turns out to be correct; they leave him alone for two more days, which he can only track by the twice-daily, meagre meals he gets. He never truly stops being hungry, but at least his stomach doesn’t cramp with hunger pains, nor does his head feel cloudy from lack of calories.

As time passes, his physical health improves until he can stand up without feeling faint. His mental health is another story. He’s always been an active person, never staying still for too long. Sitting cramped in a pitch-black room for hours on end, he thinks he might be going crazy. He sings all the songs he knows, loop after loop, until his throat feels raw and bloody. It’s then that he’s forced back into endless silence.

Sometimes he thinks he can see his hands moving in front of his face, shadowy images that he knows aren’t real but are oh-so-convincing. His ears strain to pick up any sounds, until every shift of his skin against the stone has his palms pressed against his ears, his heartbeat like a cannon going off behind his eyes.

His dreams are no better. In his dreams, his father comes for him, drags him out of his pantry, but Jaskier has gone blind and deaf. All he knows is the harsh bite of the blade that drags against his skin, flaying him to his core.

He truly thinks that he’ll go mad from even another minute of this hell, this eternal blankness.

Luckily for him, that’s when he hears it: heavy footsteps on the stairs. “Please,” he calls out, uncaring of how his voice rasps. “Please, I’ll do anything, just let me out,  _ please _ . I’m sorry, I’m  _ sorry.” _

If his heartbeat sounded like a cannon before, it’s nothing compared to the ear-splitting grate of the door opening. His hands fly to his ears; he then has to tuck his head into his knees like a child when the brightness that floods the pantry feels like sandpaper to the eyes. Involuntary tears well up.

He’s given no time to recover before two guards once again drag him into the main cellar. He thought he wanted out of the pantry, would have given anything for it, but this is  _ so much worse.  _ His brain is banging around inside of his skull, every sense dialed up to eleven.

He doesn’t struggle at all as he’s once again fastened in the manacles against the wall. He stands on unsteady legs, eyes still squeezed shut, desperately wishing he could move his arms to block everything out.

The guards leave. After several minutes he risks cracking open his eyelids, slowly opening them bit by bit as his eyes adjust. His vision is blurry, but it sharpens until he can make out his boots against the rough stone floor. He lifts his head; he still has to squint against the torchlight, but he jumps when he sees his father not three feet in front of him. How Jaskier didn’t notice him before, he doesn’t know.

“I was wondering when you were going to join us. I want you to be able to see this next part,” his father says with relish, once again brandishing his wicked hunting knife. 

Jaskier knows how a hunted animal feels. Knows how it feels to know nothing but mindless panic in the face of a hunter, to know with absolute certainty that you’ve reached the end of the road. His heart gallops in his chest, every muscle tensing.

Will he become yet another of his father's trophies? Animals made to suffer through a slow death, the mercy of the knife never offered until he’s just a husk of who he once was, stuffed and paraded in front of nobles as the most valuable in his collection?

He clears his throat. He doesn’t think there’s anything he can say that will prevent the coming pain, but he has to try. Even when he has nothing, he has words. “Father,  _ please _ . I’m your son—” He breaks off to cough, throat unbearably dry.

“Oh? What were your words, again? ‘I’m no son of yours’? My, how quickly you change your mind,” he comments, idly tracing the knife along Jaskier’s chin. Jaskier fights to stay still, despite the way his chest wants to heave.

“Please, I—I was stupid, I shouldn’t have said that—” Jaskier begs. Anything to make his father reconsider.

“Yes, it was rather stupid of you, wasn’t it? Stupid of you to think that you could ever escape me, stupid to think that I wouldn’t find out about your lovely gift and track you down. But it’s alright. I forgive you,” he coos, and sinks the tip of the knife into Jaskier's bicep.

Jaskier can’t hold back a cry of pain as his father drags the blade down the length of his upper arm. He can feel every inch of it, a terrible kind of burning friction, the sick feeling of something  _ inside  _ of him where it  _ definitely should not be. _

He sobs, gags, heaves, as blood pours down his arm. Through the tears of pain, Jaskier sees that the rubies that fall to the floor are bigger this time.  _ The greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward,  _ he thinks somewhat hysterically.

His father, meanwhile, has stepped back to watch with voracious glee. He barely seems to notice the slight healer enter the room, carrying bandages and water once again. “Oh, that won’t do,” he muses, frowning. “Fetch the suture kit, there’s a good lass.” By the time she returns, Jaskier has calmed his breathing a bit, still taking the occasional hitching breath. He tries to hold as still as he can while she stitches him up, but is unable to prevent the instinctual flinch every time the needle pierces his flesh.

“Stop moving, Julian,” his father snaps, stepping forward to slap his cheek harshly. “Disobedient brat.” He turns to the healer. “Hurry up with that.”

She ties off the last stitch, tugging at Jaskier’s skin roughly, but he barely feels it over the fire burning a path up and down his arm. She steps back, gathering her tray of supplies from the floor, and turns to leave, but his father stops her. “We aren’t done yet. Stay here,” he orders.

Oh gods. What now? Jaskier doesn’t think he can lose any more blood without passing out. His heart is already pounding hard against his ribcage, and he can feel cold sweat beading along his temples. Every so often his vision goes grey, head spinning.

Unfortunately, it looks like more pain is exactly what he's getting. His father stabs the knife into his other arm, mirroring the other gash exactly. The pain is blinding; Jaskier clenches his teeth so hard he swears he feels one crack. There’s a sound like a tea kettle whistling nearby.

_ Oh,  _ he realizes blankly.  _ That’s me.  _ He’s helpless to stop the whining shriek that’s tearing itself out of him, can only ride the waves of pain as they crash through his body.

Strangely enough, the pain begins to fade.  _ That’s nice,  _ Jaskier thinks, entirely shocked. And maybe in shock, too. This theory gets more likely as his vision disappears entirely, grey static taking over his brain until blank darkness opens its arms and embraces him. He falls into it happily.

\--

He’s not actually sure when he rejoins the land of the living. He just gradually notices that the pain in his arms has caught his attention, and becomes aware of cold stone beneath his back. At first, he thinks that he’s been thrown back in the pantry, because all he can see is black. He can’t spend another two days in that nothingness. He can’t.

Then he realizes that the black isn’t uniform—it’s more of a reddish shade, and it…flickers? Exactly like a dying torch might.

He opens his eyes and is surprised to be greeted, not with a void, but with the dim light of a few dying torches. He’s still in the main room of the cellar, although he’s been moved from being chained against the wall to being chained down to a table. That’s progress, he supposes. Even the thought of that cursed pantry sends shivers down his spine. He’ll take this table any day.

Though that doesn’t mean he isn’t nervous about this change. He can’t readily think of a reason for his father to have chained him to this table; the uncertainty of it is killing him. Whatever his father has planned next, it’s sure to be horrific.

To distract himself from unhelpful, maudlin thoughts, he takes stock of his body. Head still pounding, probably from dehydration and blood loss. Throat in even worse shape than before; every breath scrapes over raw skin, and he can taste blood when he (painfully) swallows. Legs and torso seem to be fine, although they’re beginning to feel sore from being strapped in one position for too long.

And then, onto his arms. He raises his head as much as he can, breathing heavily through the way it swims and throbs. His vision slowly clears, and though the light is barely enough to see by, he can still catch sight of the devastation that is his arms.

The bandages from before have been removed. Jaskier is sickened to see long, parallel lines carved into his skin, striking him with the  _ deliberateness  _ of them all. It’s one thing for him to have collected scars through the years of traveling with Geralt; those scars are a tribute to the life he’s lived, a record of every time he’s felt the thrill of accompanying Geralt on a hunt. There’s memories attached to them, not only of pain, but of the concern shown afterwards—Geralt berating him for his carelessness, but remaining gentle as he examined the bandages Jaskier had wrapped around himself, checking for infection or too-tight bindings.

These scars, however, are nothing like those. These are a mark of deliberate, calculating harm—a measure of how much blood he could stand to lose for someone else’s gain. When Jaskier looks at them, all he remembers is his father’s cold gaze, matching the cold bite of the knife.

That’s not even the worst of it. No, what’s far worse is the two mirrored gashes on his upper arms. They’ve been stitched closed, but messily, a stark line of uneven black stitches marching from his elbow to his shoulder. Just looking at them, Jaskier feels faint. It’s the most gruesome thing he's ever seen, and that includes the multiple times Geralt has shown him various rotting monsters. It’s the closeness of it all, the strange intimacy of knowing that it’s  _ his  _ flesh that’s marked up like this, it’s  _ his  _ arms that look like a medical student’s poor first attempt at treatment.

He drops his head back onto the cold, hard iron table with a  _ thunk.  _ He feels like he's on the border of hyperventilating.

At that moment, the door at the top of the stairs swings open, letting sunlight flood in. Jaskier hears the telltale sounds of his father’s footsteps descending the stairs, and his breathing speeds up even more. Why is he back already? Jaskier doesn’t think he can survive any more pain, any more blood loss.

His father enters the room alone this time, no healer accompanying him. Either his father has decided to stop the hurt for now, or he thinks that Jaskier will be in too bad of a shape to warrant an attempt at keeping him alive.

“Julian. Good to see you’re awake. I think we ought to talk.” And oh, those words never lead to anything good.

“What about? You’ll pardon me, of course, for not being up to any scintillating intellectual conversations,” he quips, trying to divert the discussion. “I find it’s quite difficult to concentrate through the pain and fuzziness.”

“Lucky for you, I want to talk about pain. Your gift, specifically, and  _ why the hell this happened!”  _ he roars, tugging up his sleeve to reveal three parallel cuts on his forearm, and one large gash spanning his bicep. “How did you do this?” he demands, slamming his hands on the table next to where Jaskier’s head lies.

A bitter laugh bubbles up out of Jaskier’s chest. It starts as a chuckle, then escalates to a full-blown guffaw. He can’t stop laughing hysterically. It isn’t even that funny, but Jaskier relishes the satisfaction of  _ finally  _ seeing his father get his own,  _ finally  _ being beaten at his own game.

A harsh slap to the cheek snaps him out of it. He’s still grinning wildly, though.

“Enough!” his father thunders. “You don’t want to tell me? Fine. I can make you talk.” He rolls up his other sleeve, cuffing it neatly. “And perhaps, if I’m lucky, you’ll share some of those precious tears of yours. I hear they’re more valuable, though quite hard to come by.”

What ensues is the worst beating of his life. It’s worse than all other beatings he’s ever received, combined. He feels ribs snap under the pressure of crushing fists. Deep purple bruises blossom under heavy blows to every inch of his body. He can’t even curl up to protect himself, with how he’s secured to the table at his arms and ankles. One particularly violent punch to the stomach has him gagging for air, feeling bile rise in his ruined throat.

He throws his head to the side; nothing comes up, but he can’t stop gagging and hiccupping for air. His entire body throbs in time with his too-fast heartbeat.

Finally, finally, his father steps back, panting harshly. Jaskier has his eyes squeezed shut, involuntary tears of pain running down to the table.  _ At least he won’t be getting any diamonds from this,  _ Jaskier consoles himself. He lies there, sobbing for breath, as his father waits and watches. Jaskier wishes he would just  _ go,  _ leave him to nurse his many, many wounds in peace. His father’s weighty gaze feels like insects crawling all over his skin.

“Hmm, no diamonds. Pity. Guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow,” his father sighs. “But I’ll settle for rubies for now. Though I must come up with another method,” he mutters to himself, already walking away. “Perhaps a mage…?”

Jaskier is once again alone in the cellar, crying—not from pain, now, but from the complete callousness his father shows. Even when Jaskier would be beaten as a child, his father kept up an air of  _ caring.  _ “This is for your own good,” he would say afterwards. “You must learn the correct way to behave, if you are to take my place as count of these lands.”

Now all pretense of care is gone. Jaskier is left only with a broken body and shattered hope, worthless body surrounded by priceless diamonds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is tortured by his father in search of rubies. He is beaten, cut, deprived of food, and placed in solitary isolation. There's also a pretty graphic description of his wounds.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's still bad, folks. warnings for more torture, and as always, details in the end notes

Geralt rides hard once he leaves Redania. Priscilla had told him where to find Jaskier’s mother, in a village halfway between Oxenfurt and Novigrad. From her, he was able to get the entire story that Jaskier never told him: the way he was cursed, the specifics of how it works, the progress his mother has made towards undoing it. How the two of them left Lettenhove when Jaskier was ten, left Jaskier’s abusive father behind.

Geralt rides harder than he ever has before, because time is of the essence now. He’s already wasted days trekking all the way to Jaskier’s home. By his estimate, he can reach Lettenhove in four days, barring any complications.

So of course, complications arise.

He’s just passing the border into Kerack when the black-and-maroon-clad soldiers appear on the horizon. There aren’t many, perhaps thirty at most, but they’ve erected a barrier across the road. So he can’t go forward, but neither can he skirt around; a wide, rushing river lies to his left, and to his right is murky swampland that Roach can’t walk through. He’ll either have to take on the barricade, or backtrack to the last town to stable Roach and then continue on foot.

Neither option is ideal. Geralt hates killing humans, more than anything; their deaths always stick in his mind longer than anything else. But the swamp route will add days, if not weeks to his journey. He can’t waste any more time than he already has; with every passing minute, Jaskier gains another scar.

He grits his teeth and dismounts, sending Roach to a safe distance with a slap to her flank. She knows to stay away from a fight until he whistles for her. He stalks forward alone, unsheathing his steel sword.

As he draws closer, the soldiers stand to attention, tightening their grips on their shields and pointing halberds outwards.

“Halt!” one soldier cries. “By order of the Count de Lettenhove, the border into Kerack is closed to all travelers.”

“Why?” Geralt shouts back.

“That is none of your concern. Turn back now, or we will be forced to defend our border!”

Geralt rolls his eyes, adjusting his grip on his sword. So it’ll be the hard way, then.

He charges forward, steel flashing as he hacks and slashes. It’s a fairly even match; Geralt, of course, has his strength and speed, while the soldiers have the advantage of sheer numbers. He dispatches two attackers with one swipe, but gains a gash along his left calf. It seems that for every couple soldiers he takes down, he gains a new injury.

Eventually, it’s down to him, panting heavily and bleeding from several places, against six soldiers armed with shields and swords. He can take them. He can.

He thinks so, until a sudden heaviness overcomes his limbs. His eyelids droop, forced closed by an unnatural power, and he suddenly realizes he can feel the presence of a mage inside his head. He fights it with everything he has, barely managing to keep the mage out.

Unfortunately, that opens a window of opportunity for the soldiers circling him to attack. One, two, three sharp jabs, which he barely fends off. One soldier gets in a lucky strike and Geralt watches dazedly as he’s disarmed, sword flying to land somewhere in the dirt behind him.

Blows rain down on him, driving him to his knees. However, none of them aim for a killing strike. Geralt scarcely has time to wonder about it before the mage in his mind gains the upper hand. 

He spares half a thought to Roach, hopes that she managed to get far enough that these bastards never get their hands on her. But he hears a panicked whinny, thinks  _ shit,  _ and then darkness overtakes him. The last thing he feels is his body slumped on the hard-packed earth.

\--

Jaskier is awake, staring blankly at the ceiling and reciting bawdy poetry in his mind, when the mage arrives. His father, of course, trails behind her, excitement tempered with apprehension in his eyes.

“This is the boy?” the mage asks, sounding almost bored.

“Yes. I need to know exactly how the magic works.”

“And then I suppose you’d like me to lift his curse? That will cost extra.”

“Oh, of course not. I just need the specifics, and perhaps some further assistance later, should he prove…difficult,” his father assures her.

Jaskier watches as she approaches, holding her gloved hands out in front of her. She starts chanting in Elder—something something  _ knowledge  _ something  _ magic.  _ His Elder is still quite rusty.

He feels a tingling all along his skin. As she continues chanting, it escalates to a nasty itch; he wishes desperately that his hands were free to scratch. He squirms against the table as much as he can, hoping that it will help.

After several tense minutes, the mage steps back. “It’s a blood curse. Every drop that falls to the ground—”

“Will turn to a ruby, yes, I know. What about his tears?”

“Hmm. They’re more specific. They must be borne of true sorrow in order to transform into diamonds. Tears of pain, tears of laughter, none of those will work. True sorrow, only,” she informs him.

“Interesting,” his father murmurs. “And what can you tell me about these?” He rolls up a sleeve to show her the cuts.

She closes her eyes for a moment, then says, “Also part of the curse. Every harm done to him in pursuit of gems is replicated on the one who harms him. The moment you touched the gems, they appeared, correct?” she asks. His father nods. “I would proceed with caution. Either have somebody else extract the gems, or else acquire them with as little bodily harm as possible.”

His father looks displeased at that, but nods once again.

“Now may I take my leave?” the mage asks, annoyed.

“Yes, for now. If I have further need of your magic, I will call on you.” His father dismisses her with a wave of his hand. She leaves.

“True sorrow, hmm? It looks as if I will have to get…creative,” his father muses. Jaskier fights back a reflexive shudder. “Clearly physical pain won’t be enough. Emotional, though…” There’s silence for a moment as his father considers his options. Then, to his surprise, his father pulls away, a cruel smile appearing on his face. “I know what will work. Why don’t you sit tight while I prepare a surprise for you?”

He walks away, and Jaskier can hear him calling after the mage as he walks upstairs. Their ensuing conversation is muffled through the floor, but Jaskier can make out two words: ‘capture’ and ‘witcher’.

No.  _ No.  _ He’s going after Geralt. Geralt, who is most definitely rushing towards Lettenhove at this very moment. He’ll be heading straight into danger, caught entirely unawares.

Jaskier is struck by the need to  _ do  _ something, warn Geralt somehow, but how can he? He can’t even get off of this  _ godsdamned table.  _ He struggles fruitlessly against his bonds, only succeeding in wrenching his arms and aggravating his wounds.

After about five minutes of this he gives up. He settles instead for screaming abuse aimed at his fucking  _ bastard  _ father. “You son of a whore! Don’t you  _ dare  _ touch him! I hope he rips you to  _ shreds  _ and then  _ pisses on your corpse! Leave him the fuck alone!” _

He rants and raves, only stopping when he absolutely has to, by virtue of his voice giving out on him. Some minutes pass, and the door at the top of the stairs opens.

“Julian, is that any way to behave when we have a guest?” His father thunders down the stairs with some sort of cloth in his hand. It turns out to be a gag, which he shoves in Jaskier’s mouth, fingers darting away as Jaskier tries to bite him. Unfortunately, his father gets the gag in without any injury, and now Jaskier can’t even speak if he wanted to. He pants harshly through the cloth, glaring at his father with all the hatred he can muster.

“That’s better.” Jaskier seethes, and burns, and rages as his father leaves the cellar once more. Unfortunately, all of the activity has tired him out, and he slumps back bonelessly.

Exhaustion drags at his eyelids. Completely against his will, he finds himself falling asleep, his body hard at work to replenish the lost blood.

\--

Geralt wakes up in complete darkness, feeling a tightness at his wrists and ankles that speaks of restraints. Sure enough, when he sits up, he hears the telltale  _ clink _ of chain links shifting.

He looks around the room he’s been imprisoned in; it’s only thanks to his enhanced sight that he’s able to make out anything at all. The room is incredibly small, perhaps the size of a closet. Set into the opposite wall is a heavy iron door—one that even a witcher might have trouble breaking down. There’s nothing else of note inside the room, save the bolts that anchor his restraints into the floor. He tugs at them, but they’re firmly embedded.

Next he reaches for Igni—perhaps he can melt the bolts if he can get it hot enough. To his dismay, nothing happens when he flexes his fingers. He runs through his other signs—Aard, Quen, all of them are inaccessible.

He takes a closer look at the manacles around his wrists; sure enough, they’re dimeritium. So no magic, then. If he’s to get out, it will be on his strength alone.

He settles in to meditate for the time being, until whoever took him comes. He has vague memories of a fight, and the feeling of a mage rooting around in his head. He’s not dead, so that means they want him alive for a reason. And he’ll learn what it is sooner or later. He just has to wait.

He surfaces from meditation hours later. He can hear the very faint sound of footsteps on the other side of the door; it sounds like someone descending a staircase. That, and the total lack of light, must mean he’s underground, in a dungeon or a cellar.

The footsteps draw closer, but stop before they reach the iron door. He hears a muffled voice—too muffled to make out individual words. The footsteps begin their approach again; Geralt has to throw an arm up to cover his eyes as the door is suddenly flung open.

His eyes quickly adjust, and standing in the doorway is a portly, middle-aged nobleman. “Witcher,” he greets.

Geralt simply scowls, giving no response. The nobleman doesn’t seem fazed. “How are you enjoying those dimeritium cuffs? I had them commissioned, special for you,” he taunts.

Geralt doesn’t rise to the bait. “I don’t know what you want, but I can assure you, people who try and take advantage of witchers don’t usually meet with a happy ending,” he threatens. “I have no quarrel with you. Let me walk free and I will depart in peace.”

“Nor do I have a quarrel with you. It is simply your unfortunate position that you will serve my means.” And with that, he beckons someone over, that Geralt hadn’t even seen standing out of sight. She has an aura of power about her, radiating the same menacing magic that Yennefer does. A sorceress, then.

She flicks her fingers, and the bolts holding his chains unearth themselves from the floor. She wields them like reins, tugging him to his feet, and he stumbles forward. She leads him out of the pantry and into a larger room, walls lined with flickering torches.

And in the middle of the room, a table. With someone lying on it. Strapped down.

_ Jaskier. _

His mind goes blank, rage filling him. He snarls, digging his feet in and yanking at the chains holding him. He has to get free, has to kill the nobleman (who must be Jaskier’s father, he realizes distantly) and take Jaskier far, far away from here.

Unfortunately, the drugs still clouding his mind mean that he’s too slow to do anything before the sorceress flicks her fingers again, wrapping the chains in a cocoon around his struggling form. They tighten, links digging into his skin, as he continues to struggle.

It’s only once they get tight enough to constrict his breathing that he stops. He lies there, lightheaded, gulping for air, as the mage steps forward. “I would advise not struggling. It won’t help.”

He glares at her, unable to push words forth. Eventually, just as his vision is clouding dark, the chains let up. He sucks in a deep breath, lying limply on the floor as blood returns to his extremities.

He doesn’t get very long to recover before the chains are once again tugging him up. He doesn’t fight as the mage secures his wrists and ankles to the wall, though he does bare his teeth the entire time. The urge to run to Jaskier is still running strong through him.

From here, he can see that Jaskier is also secured by his wrists and ankles, though the cuffs aren’t dimeritium. He looks pale, deep shadows underneath his eyes, and there’s a cloth shoved into his mouth, acting as a gag.

What really catches his eye, though, is the line of ugly stitches running down both his arms. They’re harsh against the delicacy of Jaskier’s skin, a reminder of pain that shouldn’t have happened.

The count must know about Jaskier’s curse. Why else would he have captured Jaskier, only to cut him open like this?

And if he’s captured Geralt for a specific reason, it must have something to do with the other part of his curse—the diamonds that form from his tears.

This situation is rapidly escalating. He needs to get free, and quickly, but the drugs still running through his veins will make it difficult.

He absently tugs at his restraints once again, feeling their absolute unyielding strength that he won’t be able to break until he has his full power back. The mage notices this, and snaps her fingers like one might at a misbehaving dog. The chains tighten threateningly.

The count takes no notice. He walks over to Jaskier and pulls the gag out of his mouth, fingers dancing away before Jaskier can bite them.  _ Good,  _ Geralt thinks savagely. Jaskier has some fight in him yet.

“Julian, why don’t you greet our guest,” he suggests, smirking.

Jaskier looks right past him and turns his wide blue eyes on Geralt. “I’m so sorry,” he croaks. “This is all my fault, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault—” Geralt tries to say, but finds he can’t get the words out. That  _ fucking mage.  _ The count speaks over his poor attempts at speech.

“Yes, it is. If you hadn’t entrapped this witcher here, hounded him day and night until he got sick of telling you to leave, he wouldn’t be here right now. You cursed him with your presence until he got too attached, and now he’s going to pay the price.” The count punctuates his statement by flourishing the knife he’s pulled out of its sheath.

Geralt steels himself for pain. He can take quite a bit, he knows; hopefully nothing is too badly damaged to hinder their escape.

The first bite of the knife isn’t bad at all; it stings a bit, but Geralt has had so much worse. Knife cuts are nothing compared to claws, or teeth, or venom.

The next ten or so are harder to ignore, but he manages it. He grits his teeth against the pain and tests out his voice again. Surprisingly, it works; Geralt looks around and realizes the mage has made herself scarce. “Jaskier, don’t look. It’s nothing, and it’s not your fault.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn his gaze away from the cuts painting Geralt’s skin, as much as Geralt wishes he would. He doesn’t want him to have to see this, but then, that’s probably exactly what the count had planned.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, sounding wrecked. To his horror, Geralt sees unshed tears glistening in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Jaskier. I’ve had worse than this,” he reassures, but a sharp hiss at the end as the count digs the knife in again betrays his pain.

“Am I  _ boring  _ you?” the count asks, somewhat incredulously. “I suppose we’ll have to work harder.” He wipes the knife clean, putting it back inside the sheath. Geralt doesn’t have high hopes for what will come next.

\--

What follows is several hours of the most painful experience of Jaskier’s life. Even when the pain was his own, it wasn’t half as bad as seeing Geralt try to put on a brave face through the torture his father is inflicting on him.

Flogs, whips, fists, until Geralt is black and blue, blood pouring to the floor. Jaskier cries, heedless of the diamonds falling onto the floor. He doesn’t care, would give  _ anything  _ for the torture to stop. It’s all his fault, Geralt wouldn’t even be here if not for him, he did this, might as well have wielded the whip himself—

“ _ Jaskier!”  _ Geralt calls, and it sounds as if it isn’t the first time Geralt has said it. Jaskier is sobbing too hard to respond, but he does stop the torrent of blame that had been pouring out of his mouth—he hadn’t even realized he was spilling all of his thoughts aloud. “Jaskier, it’s alright, calm down. He’s gone, look, he’s gone. I’m alright,” Geralt reassures him.

Jaskier opens his eyes and realizes that his father had left some time ago, but he had been crying too hard to notice. The diamonds, however, have been collected, save the ones that have just formed.

Jaskier desperately tries to force words out through the tears. “Geralt, I—I’m sorry, it’s— _ hic _ —my fault—”

Geralt shushes him. “It’s not your fault, Jaskier. Shhhh. I would do it again in a heartbeat, if it would save you the pain. I’m alright, don’t worry.” Platitudes aren’t normally Geralt’s thing, but he does them well, even as laced with barely-restrained anger as they are. It’s enough for Jaskier to stop his hiccupping sobs, quieting down to the occasional sniff.

“Sorry,” he croaks out one last time.

“None of this is your fault,” Geralt assures him firmly. “Besides, I’ve had far worse than this before, and you know it.”

Jaskier thinks back to the dozens of times he’s had to stitch Geralt up after a particularly difficult contract, all the times he’s had to lug Geralt’s unresponsive body back to their camp and force potions down his throat until he woke up. It’s true; this is a drop in the bucket compared to a witcher’s normal life. The thought makes him sad, tears welling up once again. He feels like a leaky tap attached to an overfull bucket, emotions on a hair-trigger.

Geralt murmurs to him as he cries himself out—once he runs out of reassuring words, he turns to stories that Jaskier has always wanted to hear.

Stories of hunts he’d missed out on—a striga, a werewolf, a chort. When he runs out of monsters, he continues on to stories of the wolf witchers’ keep, Kaer Morhen. “It’s nicest in the summer, when it’s warm enough to take a dip in the lake, but I like winter the best. When the valley is covered in ice and snow, and it gets so quiet that all you can hear is your breath and the snowflakes falling. That’s the best time to see Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier can see it in his mind; treetops dusted with snow and shining in the weak winter sunlight, a castle nestled warmly into the mountains, a pack of wolves all kept cozy by the fire in the great hall.

“I’ll take you there, if you want to go. Next winter. You can meet Vesemir and my brothers, pester them all with your requests for good ballad material.”

“That sounds nice,” Jaskier rasps, clutching the words to his chest like a blanket for comfort. He finally drifts to sleep with thoughts of winter running through his mind. The last thing he hears, before sleep takes him, is a promise from Geralt.

“I’ll get us out of here as soon as I can. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is captured and taken to Lettenhove, where he's tortured in order to make Jaskier cry diamonds. He is cut and beaten, as well as very briefly choked by chains.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for needles, minor character death, vomiting, and panic attacks.

Jaskier wakes up only slightly dizzy, and feeling far more emotionally stable than last night. It would all feel like a horrible nightmare, if not for the plain evidence in front of his eyes—diamonds on the ground and Geralt chained to the wall in front of him. His eyes are closed in meditation, and Jaskier shouldn’t be shocked anymore by how quickly Geralt can heal, but he still feels his eyes widen in surprise when he sees how much better Geralt looks.

His relief doesn’t last long, however; he hears the cellar door open and instinctively flinches. It’s an ingrained response, now; too many times that sound has meant pain will follow.

His father descends the stairs, and Geralt’s amber eyes immediately fly open at the sound. He starts tugging at his chains, and Jaskier is gratified to see the smallest crack appear in the wall. It’s miniscule, but it’s a start.

Geralt shoots him a look. It’s one that he’s seen many times, before; it means  _ don’t do anything stupid.  _ Unfortunately, he and Geralt have vastly different interpretations of the word ‘stupid’. In this case, Jaskier thinks it would be a brilliant idea to run his mouth and distract his father, giving Geralt time to wrench free of his bonds.

So he does exactly that. Though it hurts his throat to talk, though it makes his father’s face incandescent with rage, he starts singing the dirtiest ditty he knows, substituting in his father’s name where appropriate, and a goat where decidedly not.

“Why can’t you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?” his father hisses, giving him a vicious backhand. It stuns Jaskier enough that he stops singing for a second.

Luckily, though, his plan has worked; his father’s entire focus is on Jaskier, now. He watches furtively as Geralt keeps straining against the chains. The bolts pull half a millimeter out of the wall.

His father looms over him. Jaskier hadn’t seen it before, but he’s brandishing a syringe, a rather large one. He can feel his face pale.

“Not so brave, now, are you?” his father sneers.

“Braver than you,” Jaskier retorts. “You fucking coward, taking a witcher captive, beating a bound man! Hiding behind a sorceress, hiding away in your shitty rotting estate in your shitty rotting country!”

His father sinks the needle into his neck, right into his carotid artery. Jaskier tries to yank his neck away, but can’t muster the strength, especially not when his father holds his head steady with one unyielding hand. He expects to feel the sickly, chilling surge of some decoction or another, but instead, his father begins drawing blood. Lots of it.

Jaskier struggles weakly, trying in vain to buck his father off. He doesn’t succeed. His father tightens his suffocating grip, stilling him for this robbery of his life force, this act of paternal vampirism.

Nausea arises in him as his father continues to drain him of blood. The feeling of the needle in his neck, the steady, sickening flow of his blood being sucked out of him, has him breaking out into a cold sweat. As his father withdraws pull after pull, Jaskier can physically feel himself weakening. His struggles die out, his head going limp. His entire body feels too cold and too hot at the same time, his heart racing in his chest.

Jaskier is sure that if he loses any more blood, he’ll be dead. He lies there, panting, unable to do anything else. He’s so dizzy, but he can’t lose consciousness now. The bolts are almost free of the wall—he has to stay awake, has to keep his father distracted. Geralt has to escape. He has to. Even if he has to leave Jaskier behind to do it.

He’s so caught up in his spiraling thoughts that he misses the actual moment it happens. The next thing he knows, his father is yanked from his sight, the syringe being pulled out of his neck. Then Geralt is standing over him, wrenching apart the cuffs around Jaskier’s wrists and ankles with inhuman strength. The dimeritium cuffs are still tight around Geralt’s own wrists, but the chains have been discarded on the floor next to where his father now lies, unconscious.

Jaskier stares down at his father’s slack face. He looks so much more human when all the anger has been wiped from his expression. It’s uncanny; Jaskier doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last saw his father like this. He can’t stop staring.

His vision is suddenly filled with Geralt’s head next to his. He’s leant down, hands coming to grip Jaskier behind the neck and waist. Geralt levers his unresponsive body up, but too quickly; Jaskier’s vision greys out, his head filled with a dull roar.

He comes back to find himself slumped over Geralt’s shoulder, head hanging down over his back and with Geralt’s firm arm holding tight to his legs. It’s the same way he carried him during the djinn incident, and Jaskier feels lightheaded as he remembers.

Or maybe that’s from hanging upside down with severe blood loss.

Jaskier is still kind of out of it, watching the bricks below them as Geralt lugs him up the stairs and through the manor hallways. He’s tiptoeing, steps falling as silently as a cat’s, even as burdened with Jaskier’s weight as he is. Maybe they have a chance at escaping unnoticed.

They make it all the way out to the courtyard before they’re spotted. It’s difficult to hide six feet of witcher in broad daylight, and a passing guard raises the alarm. Geralt curses and sets Jaskier on the ground, propping him up against the wall behind some bushes. It’s not much cover, but he’s hidden from view from anyone not actively searching.

Jaskier watches dimly as Geralt quickly disarms the first soldier that comes for him, taking his blade and cutting his throat in an efficient spray. He cuts down soldier after soldier, untouchable even without his armor. Jaskier wishes he could forever preserve the image of Geralt like this—his hair gleaming silver in the sunlight, sword swinging with deadly precision, yellow fire flashing in his eyes.

His beauty is in stark contrast to the gore littering the courtyard. As Geralt fights, one of the soldiers falls next to Jaskier, dead eyes staring blankly up at him, blood pouring from his mouth.

Jaskier turns to the side and vomits, nausea at the sight overwhelming him. Still, life on the road with Geralt has taught him to be pragmatic when possible. Using his sleeve to wipe the vomit from his mouth, Jaskier turns to the corpse besides him. He has no sword, but his knife is still within its sheath at his hip. Trying not to gag at the feeling of wet blood on rapidly-cooling flesh, Jaskier works the knife free of the sheath, wrapping his fingers around the hilt in a fragile grip.

Geralt dispatches the last soldier with little difficulty. Still holding his newly-acquired sword tightly, he turns back to Jaskier, who smiles weakly in return.

But his smile drops when he sees who’s rounding the corner behind Geralt. “Geralt!” he warns, but he’s too slow; Geralt drops like a sack of stones as the mage forces her way into Geralt’s mind.

She smirks, idly nudging at his limp form with her shoe. “Too easy to get into that one’s mind,” she says.

“Just finish it already,” answers Jaskier’s father tersely, trailing behind her. “He’s more trouble than he’s worth, now.” He leaves her to it and turns his attention to Jaskier, still propped against the wall, but frantically trying to get to his feet without passing out entirely.

“You got what you wanted,” Jaskier gasps out. “Leave him alone, you can have me, just let him be.”

“Why would I leave him alive? Safer to kill him than risk him holding a grudge against me. I know how dangerous witchers can be. I’ve already made the mistake of underestimating him once,” he finishes, glaring darkly.

_ “Please.  _ Please don’t kill him, I’ll do anything you want. Please.”

“Oh, Julian. You already will. You think you have any negotiating power here?” He shakes his head, as he did often whenever Jaskier did something disappointing as a child.

“Please,” he pleads one more time, looking back at Geralt. It’s not how he wants to remember him—in manacles, covered in blood, lying lifelessly on the ground—but he needs to witness it. Geralt deserves the honor of a witness to his death. He’s earned that much.

But something strange happens. Geralt’s eyes shoot open at the same time the mage lets out a cry. She throws a hand to her head, nose beginning to leak blood. Geralt’s nose is bleeding too, veins bulging out in his neck, jaw clenched tightly.

“ _ Get out of my head,”  _ he growls, pushing himself to his hands and knees. The mage sinks down onto her knees as well, the two of them mirror images of each other.

Then, as quickly as a candle blowing out, the mage collapses. Dead. Geralt stands, triumphant, looking drained but  _ blessedly alive. _

The count screams in wordless rage. As Geralt steps threateningly closer, hand closing around his sword to finish it, once and for all, the count pulls out his hunting knife, yanking Jaskier up against his chest, pressing the blade against his neck. “Not a step closer!”

Geralt freezes, lips pulled back in a snarl. Jaskier tries to get him to meet his eyes. He doesn’t succeed. Looks like he’s winging this, then.

“Time we started negotiating, witcher,” his father says. “You leave from here, forever, and I don’t kill him. I’ll even throw in a share of the gems. But if I ever hear tell of you, or any other witcher, setting foot in Kerack again—”

Jaskier doesn’t let him finish. With all his strength—admittedly limited—he swings the arm with the knife up, slashing blindly behind him. His father yells in pain. Jaskier pushes himself forward, out of his father’s crushing, suffocating grip. He falls to his knees without any form of support.

His head is spinning from the adrenaline, and he gags from the nausea once again making itself known. He had  _ felt it,  _ felt the knife sinking into his own father’s flesh, blood pouring forth by his own hand—

He gags again, and again, stomach rebelling, but there’s nothing in it to throw up. He hears his father behind him—his screams—turning to wet coughs—turning to the gurgle of blood—

Jaskier can’t. He thought he could do this. He  _ wanted  _ to, wanted to put an end to it all—but the reality of it is  _ horrifying.  _ He killed his father. He  _ killed  _ his  _ own father,  _ he’s committed patricide now, and  _ gods, why won’t he just shut up and die faster— _

He’s on his hands and knees, hyperventilating and sobbing and heaving as his entire world turns itself upside down. He killed his own father,  _ who the fuck is messed up enough to do that,  _ and he can’t. stop. crying.

Jaskier becomes aware of someone in front of him, kneeling just far away enough not to touch. Awkward hands hover in the air in front of him, also not touching, just waiting.

“Geralt?” he gasps out through the uneven sobs wracking his chest.

“Hmm,” and that familiar hum is enough to make Jaskier’s arms give out in relief and exhaustion. Geralt is here, and his father is dead, and they’ll finally be safe. He collapses onto Geralt’s lap, all strength completely gone, still hysterically trying to pull in oxygen.

Geralt talks to him through it all. His father eventually falls silent, and Geralt talks to him, keeps up a steady stream of words that help Jaskier anchor himself.

“He was—such an evil person, I don’t even know why I—I shouldn’t be like this, I should be happy that he’s—but that’s  _ horrible,  _ that’s horrible of me to say—he’s my  _ fucking father—” _

Geralt’s arms tighten briefly around him. “It’s alright. You can feel whatever way you like. Happy, sad, whatever. I know that must have been hard for you. But it’s over now. It’s over.”

Geralt soothes him, holding him in a comforting embrace through the whole thing. Jaskier doesn’t know how long it takes. Hours, perhaps. By the time his breathing has evened out, the sun is getting low in the sky. Jaskier just lies there, stupefied. He thought he was low on energy before—now it’s like he’s floating just outside his body, watching it lie there on Geralt’s lap from a distance.

Geralt gathers him up gently, making sure to turn his head into his broad shoulders, not letting him see any of the carnage that decorates the courtyard. He inhales Geralt’s warm scent, onion and pine trees and horse. It’s objectively not good, but the familiarity helps his mind settle further as Geralt carries him to the stables.

“Roach,” he cries, as Geralt sets him down on a wooden crate, and he’s greeted by a very friendly sight. “Darling, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Geralt starts checking over her tack, which was apparently left on her overnight. His father would normally take good care of his horses, but perhaps he was too caught up in Jaskier and Geralt to see to Roach. Or, more likely, she wouldn’t let anyone near her. “Sorry, Roach,” Geralt murmurs, running a hand down her flank. “Let’s get that off you.”

He untacks her, making sure she has plenty of food and water. Then he turns to Jaskier, grimacing. “We’re going to have to spend the night here. She’s too tired to carry you.”

Jaskier shudders at the thought of spending another night in the manor, but Geralt is right. “Well, can’t say I’ve ever slept in these stables before, but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

“The stables? There are perfectly good beds inside—”

“The stables are fine,” Jaskier cuts him off, speaking a little too loudly. Geralt hears what he doesn’t say.  _ I can’t spend another night in that manor. _

Geralt huffs, but acquiesces. He pulls out their bedrolls and sets them side by side. It’s only evening, but Jaskier is tired enough to sleep for a week.

He lies down, fully intent on immediately passing out, but his growling stomach distracts him. Jaskier remembers that it’s been several days since he had a good meal, and he also quite thoroughly emptied his stomach earlier. Geralt, ears like a bat’s, of course hears it, and starts digging in the saddlebags for something to eat.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing. Not even a handful of dried fruit, nor a piece of bread gone stale. “I’ll be right back. Stay with Roach,” Geralt orders.

“No, it’s fine, really. I can survive another night,” Jaskier tries to grin. He’s still feeling raw and tender, like a bruise, and would much rather Geralt stayed with him than went digging around an old manor that’s still haunted by the ghosts of Jaskier's past.

“You need to eat, Jaskier. And I need to find the key to these—” he holds up his wrists, still manacled, “—and someone needs to take care of the bodies.”

Of course. How selfish is he, wanting Geralt to stay by his side, like some kind of child who needs a babysitter? Geralt’s poor wrists must be rubbed raw by now, and of course it must feel terrible, not being able to access his limited magic.

“Of course,” he whispers. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Geralt cuts him off. “You’re fine. Just stay here, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.” His words are gruff, but caring all the same. It allays Jaskier’s anxiety somewhat.

Geralt leaves, and Jaskier huddles down into his bedroll. Now that the sun is going down, it’s getting colder out. He pulls the blanket up to his chin and waits, all his muscles tense.

\--

Geralt hates it, but he has to leave Jaskier in the stables while he finds food and the key. There’s just no other option; Jaskier looked petrified at the thought of going back into the manor. So Geralt tries to hurry as he heads back to the courtyard, dragging all the bodies into a pile when he gets there.

He saves the mage and the count for last, digging through their pockets for anything of value. He finds the key to his manacles on the count’s body, and it’s such a relief to finally get them off. His head instantly clears, a headache he didn’t even realize he had vanishing.

After he burns the bodies with Igni, he races through the maze of hallways, trying to find the kitchens. It takes far too long before the faintest trace of rising bread dough hits his nose. He follows the scent until he finds the kitchens, and then grabs as much food as he can physically carry. Three out of four tasks done, Geralt then searches for the treasury that he knows must be around here somewhere. The count would have needed someplace to store the priceless gems he stole from Jaskier.

He finally comes across heavy steel double doors, even thicker than the one in the pantry downstairs, engraved with an elaborate design, and painted over with gold leaf.  _ Ridiculous. _

He wrenches the doors open, breaking the lock easily now that he’s once again at full strength. His eyes are met with the sight of chests overflowing with treasure. Gold, emeralds, amethysts, and of course, rubies and diamonds. Geralt stalks over to the chests ( _ plural— _ Geralt feels absolutely sick at the sight), fully intent on destroying the gems.

It proves harder than he had originally thought. Igni doesn’t melt them like he was hoping it might, being hotter than a regular fire. Nor does Aard shatter them; he should have known, but then again, he hasn’t had the chance to handle many diamonds in his life. The life of a witcher doesn’t exactly lend itself to the opportunity.

Frustrated, Geralt growls. As much as he hates the idea of it, he’ll have to leave the gems as they are for now. There’s no way he can destroy them, and no way is he going to take them for himself. It would just be wrong—blood money, literally.

He wrenches the doors closed again, then hits them with a shot of Igni to create a temporary but strong seal. Nobody except him is getting into this treasury if he can help it.

Geralt makes his way back to the stables. Jaskier is burrowed into his bedroll, anxiety radiating off of him. At the sight of Geralt opening the door, though, he relaxes. “Successful hunt?” he asks, and Geralt winces at the sound of his scratchy voice.

“Plenty,” he replies, holding up his bounty and his freed wrists. “Here.” He portions out the food, giving the large majority to Jaskier. When he tries to complain and shove some food away from himself, Geralt grabs his wrist. The abrupt scent of fear floods his nose, and Geralt lets go as if burned.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, guilt swamping him. To his surprise, Jaskier then grabs his hand and entwines their fingers together.

“No, I’m sorry. It’s fine. I just…forgot.” They stay like that, hand in hand together, as they eat their scavenged dinner. After he’s finished, Jaskier tugs on his hand, leading him to lie down next to him. It’s an awkward fit, the both of them on one bedroll, but with some maneuvering they get comfortable, Geralt mostly underneath Jaskier, his head resting above Geralt’s heart and their intertwined hands resting on Geralt’s stomach.

As tired as he looks, though, Jaskier apparently can’t get his mind settled enough to actually fall asleep. He keeps shifting, twitching, little aborted movements that betray his inner thoughts. After thirty minutes of this, Geralt sighs.

Jaskier immediately sits up, ripping his hand out of Geralt’s. “Sorry. I’m bothering you, I’ll just—”

“ _ Jaskier.”  _ Geralt tries to suffuse his voice with calm, intending it to be a gentle interruption. Instead it comes out short, angry.

Jaskier goes silent, now shaking like a leaf. Geralt sighs again. He’s fucking everything up.

“Jaskier, I’m not angry. You’re not bothering me. But something is bothering you.” He pauses, peering intently at Jaskier. When Jaskier finally meets his eyes, Geralt tries a small, reassuring smile. “Can I hold your hand again?”

Jaskier nods, scooting closer. “Sorry,” he whispers again. “I’m all fucked up.”

“For good reason. Would it help to…talk about it?” Geralt offers. He’s infamously bad at human communication, but if it’s what Jaskier needs, well, he’ll do it, no question.

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Jaskier answers, laughing brokenly. “Every single thing about this entire shitty situation is so…” he trails off, unable to find the words to describe the magnitude of the horrors they’d seen.

Geralt nods. “I’m sorry this happened to you. You didn’t deserve it.”

Jaskier sniffs, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes. “Thanks,” he mutters. “Fuck, why do I keep crying?” he laughs wetly. “We’re going to be drowning in diamonds.”

“If I can help it, you’ll never have to spill a gem again. Ever.” Geralt rubs his thumb over Jaskier’s. “Do you think you can get some sleep now? I’ll stay up with you. If you can’t.”

“Might as well try. What’s the point of being sad vertically when you could be sad horizontally?” They lie down again, and this time Geralt drags his own bedroll against Jaskier’s, giving him room to roll away if he wants. He pulls the blankets over the both of them and doesn’t even say anything when Jaskier slowly steals them away.

Jaskier eventually slips into a restless sleep, but Geralt doesn’t even close his eyes. He’s too keyed up, paranoid that an attack will come at any moment. He’s a little tired come sunrise, but it’s fine. He has enough energy to keep going for days without sleep.

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier doesn’t have nightmares, or if he does, there’s no outward sign—no furrowed brow, no quiet whimpers, no acrid scent of fear. His body clearly needs the rest after the trauma it’s been through.

He sleeps until almost noon. Geralt really needs to piss, and he should exercise Roach while he’s at it; she’s getting restless. He takes her for a quick walk around the estate, and when they come back, he sees that Jaskier is awake, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “Sleep well?” he asks.

“Mmm, a bit. I think I’ll actually be able to walk on my own today,” Jaskier jokes.

Geralt frowns. “No. You’re riding Roach. Let yourself heal.”

“She’s had such a hard time of it lately, though—”

“She’s fine. I wouldn’t let anyone ride her if it would harm her, you know that.” As if to agree, Roach whinnies, butting her head against Geralt’s chest. “Come on. Breakfast and then we leave.”

“Agreed. The sooner we put this horrid place behind us, the better.” Geralt makes another quick trip to the kitchens, this time filling his saddlebags with all they can carry. He doesn’t expect to see Jaskier in the hallway on his way back, but that’s what he finds.

“Are you that hungry, that you couldn’t wait for me to get back?” But his joke falls flat as he notices the nervousness radiating from the bard. “What is it?” It would be just their luck if an attack or something were coming.

Jaskier chews on his lip. “I—I have to get the ruby. From the cellar. For Yennefer.”

A ruby, in that shithole? But then Geralt remembers Yennefer’s list—they need a ruby the size of Jaskier's heart. He hadn’t noticed it at the time, too focused on getting them out, but if Jaskier says there’s one down there…

He’s not about to let Jaskier traumatize himself again, though. “Go finish packing, I can get it,” he orders.

The descent into the musty cellar sends a chill down Geralt’s spine. He can too-easily hear the echoes of Jaskier’s screams, can smell rusty blood, can feel a phantom whip across his skin. He finds the gem in a pile of broken glass next to the table, and grabs it, wanting to leave this place of horrors as quickly as possible.

Jaskier’s fear has disappeared entirely when Geralt reaches the stables again. He’s stroking a gentle hand down Roach’s neck, and is indeed supporting his own weight, though Geralt still doesn’t like the way sweat is beading at his hairline.

“Got it, then?” he asks. Geralt shows him the massive stone. Jaskier whistles. “That certainly is impressive. I almost wish we didn’t need it for the spell; that could set us up for the next three centuries.”

_ I wish you didn’t have to pay such a steep price for it,  _ Geralt doesn’t say.

He wraps the ruby in several layers of spare clothes, then tucks it carefully in the saddlebags. He knows (from experience, now) that it would be quite difficult to break it, but it feels so precious, so delicate, knowing its history, where it came from and how much pain went into its creation.

With everything finally packed, they leave the manor. In the bright afternoon light, the future seems so promising, like they’ve left everything dark behind them in Lettenhove. Jaskier strums at his lute from his position atop Roach, though there are no lyrics.

For once, Geralt appreciates the music, the lilting notes a reminder that Jaskier is here, and alive, and well enough to play. Geralt makes sure they take breaks often, plying Jaskier with water and small portions of food each time. He knows well the toll losing too much blood can take, and knows also that Jaskier needs to replenish his energy.

He calls another early night when they’ve crossed the Adalette River. The physicality of its barrier, separating them and Lettenhove, provides Geralt’s mind with some comfort. They make camp, Jaskier insisting on helping by collecting firewood, as much as Geralt growls at him to  _ sit down and rest, damn it _ .

“I’ve been resting all day. My legs need the exercise,” Jaskier argues, and skips away to find wood before Geralt can grab him by the scruff and tie him down or something. He sighs and starts setting snares for their meal.

The evening passes in relative quiet, Jaskier not offering much in the way of conversation (or monologue). It’s only as he rolls out his bedroll that he frowns and looks at Geralt, who has made no move to set out his own bedroll.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” Jaskier asks.

“Not tired.” As Jaskier’s frown deepens, Geralt tries to put his mind at ease. “I’ll meditate for a few hours later,” he lies.

Jaskier doesn’t inquire further, to Geralt’s relief. He falls asleep slowly, but stays in a peaceful rest for the rest of the night, thankfully. Geralt watches the fire burn lower as the hours pass, only leaving the campsite briefly to relieve himself once.

He lets Jaskier sleep late again—not noon, they do need to make some headway, after all—and ignores the little twinge behind his eyes as they set off once again.

He’s fine. He can make it to Yen’s.

\--

Something is definitely wrong with Geralt, and Jaskier is ashamed at how long it takes him to notice it. In his defense, though, he’s had a very stressful week and is dealing with quite a lot right now, thank you very much.

But Jaskier notices the way Geralt gets tenser with every passing day, even though they’re arguably leaving all of the danger behind in Kerack. Geralt is tense, and jumpy, and growls a little bit whenever Jaskier asks for a moment of privacy, as if he thinks Jaskier can’t hear it. Honestly, if Jaskier thought he was protective before, now it’s like being trailed by an overgrown puppy with separation anxiety.

Things reach a head on their fourth day of travel, as Geralt grows harsh bags underneath his eyes and jumps at every little sound, from a bird chirping to a stick snapping underneath Roach’s hoof.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m putting an end to this right now,” Jaskier announces, pulling Roach to a stop in the middle of the road.

“What are you doing? Come on, we need to make good time today,” Geralt says, clearly annoyed.

“Nope, we’re done for the day,” Jaskier replies, hopping down from Roach’s back, ignoring the way his legs tremble as he puts weight on them. “We’re stopping here and  _ you—”  _ he points threateningly at Geralt, “—are going to tell me what’s wrong with you. You’ve been acting weird for days now. So spill.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “I’m not acting weird.”

“You are! You’re jumping at every little noise, absolutely paranoid, and I  _ know _ you haven’t slept in days. So tell me,” and he softens his voice, “what’s going on? Is it…nightmares? What is it?”

Geralt bristles at his tone. “It’s none of your damn business, is what it is. Now get back on the fucking horse, Jaskier, or I swear I’ll—”

“What? What will you do, Geralt? Force me? I’ve had enough of that lately, thanks,” Jaskier spits, lashing out instinctively. “Just tell me what’s wrong!”

“You’re one to talk! You haven’t said a damn word about what happened back there! You’re not yourself, and you don’t have all your strength back, either! So stop pretending that everything is fine!”

“Of course it isn’t fine! But I’ll be  _ damned  _ if I spend another minute feeling like a damsel in distress, crying over how sad my shitty life is! I have to pretend because  _ that’s how I get through the day, Geralt!” _

“You can’t just shove everything down! Believe me,” and suddenly he isn’t shouting anymore, “it doesn’t lead anywhere good. You need to talk about it, or something, fuck. Don’t just bottle it up.”

Jaskier laughs, a mean, ugly thing. “Oh, that’s fucking  _ rich,  _ coming from you, Mister I-Don’t-Have-Feelings. I’ll start taking your advice when you start taking your own, how about that.”

“That’s different,” Geralt growls.

_ “It literally isn’t!  _ No, you know what, I’m done talking about this, if you’re just going to be a hypocritical asshole. I don’t even know why I bother.” He knows he’s being petty and mean, knows it on some logical level of his brain, but the emotions screaming inside of him don’t care.

He turns his back to Geralt and starts walking, uncaring of the way his head spins at the movement. He has to get away from Geralt, needs some space, or he may end up doing something he truly regrets.

To his annoyance, he hears the jingle of Roach’s gear as Geralt takes her reins and leads her forward again, following him. He ignores it as best he can; he doesn’t want company right now, but neither does he want to be alone. The memory of being literally grabbed right off the street is too fresh in his mind.

As he walks he composes, for the first time in a week, a catchy, vicious little song about a witcher who wouldn’t know an emotion if it hit him in the face.

He sings it loudly, at the top of his lungs, but fails to get a rise out of Geralt. He sulks for the rest of the day.

When the time once again comes for sleep, Geralt lays out his bedroll. Jaskier is suspicious about his intent to  _ actually sleep,  _ but is too tired to start another argument. He falls asleep with his back to Geralt.

\--

They’re one day out from reaching Yennefer’s house when it all comes to a head. Jaskier feels the tension simmering under his skin, like charged air just before a thunderstorm erupts. His thoughts are bouncing all over the place; he feels like if he stops to think for even one second, something terrible will happen. At least Geralt has finally allowed him to walk for short periods of time, which is what he's doing now. It helps to burn some energy off.

He's distracted, though; Geralt, too, is distracted, he can tell. Jaskier would bet money that Geralt didn’t sleep again.

As the sun slowly rises in the sky, the day gets hotter and hotter, until he has to strip off his doublet, drenched in sweat. The heat makes him irritable, everything from Geralt’s little twitches to the too-loud crows in the trees making him want to rip his skin off.

He doesn’t even see the tree branch sticking up out of the road until it’s too late. He trips, scraping his hands on the hard-packed earth and scuffing the hell out of his knees.

He bites back a yelp of pain, slowly pushing his aching body up. He has to just sit there for a moment, in the middle of the road, as he digests the adrenaline that just flashed through his body. He looks down at his knees in the meanwhile, trying to ascertain the damage.

The knees of his trousers are now home to two very large holes, through which he can see his own skinned knees.

It all becomes too much, suddenly. It’s just one more shitty thing on a mountain of shitty things. Tears spring to his eyes, and within seconds he’s sobbing, full-force, like he was back in the courtyard. He was having a  _ fine  _ day, fuck, he  _ doesn’t need this! Why can’t something just go right for a change?  _ he begs internally.

He was doing so well at keeping it all down—but now the cat is out of the bag, all of his emotions are rising to the surface, and he can’t stop near-hyperventilating.

Geralt rushes over to him, slamming down onto his knees in front of him, gloved hands hovering over his knees as if asking permission to touch.

Jaskier nods, face still scrunched up with tears. Oh gods, he’s ugly-crying, he realizes, and some vain part of his mind is embarrassed at the thought of being seen like this in public, clothes a mess, face red, snot dripping down his chin.

“Jaskier, are you alright? It—it doesn’t look that bad…” Geralt tries to reassure him, sounding totally confused at his out-of-the-blue breakdown.

“It’s not,” he wails, shaking his head. “It’s not that—I just can’t—” and then he’s crying too hard to continue. Looking very awkward and out of place, Geralt places a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.

Fuck, but the physical contact, even blocked by Geralt’s glove and his own chemise, feels so good. He leans forward, until his forehead hits Geralt’s unyielding shoulder pad. Geralt’s left hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, while his right hand strokes up and down his back.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt murmurs. “I can help you, just tell me what’s wrong.”

Jaskier shakes his head. No, he doesn’t think anyone will be able to help him with this. The yawning chasm inside of him is too deep.

“Okay,” Geralt soothes. “Okay. I’m here.” He rubs Jaskier’s back until he stops crying, until he sits up, scrubbing at his face. What a mess.

“Sorry,” he begins to say, fully embarrassed, but Geralt stops him.

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. Do you want to talk about it?”

Jaskier chews at his lip. He doesn’t, not really; it feels like once he starts talking, he’ll never stop, unending horrors pouring out of his mouth until he’s naught but an empty husk. But at the same time, it feels like a physical weight pressing on his chest, as if he’s been sat on by Roach. Maybe…just a little bit? Just to relieve some of the pressure?

He starts talking in halting sentence fragments, not really connecting his thoughts, just letting words fall out of his mouth. Geralt listens attentively, as morning turns into afternoon turns into early evening.

Jaskier’s voice is raspy when the well of words inside of him finally runs dry. Geralt wordlessly hands him his waterskin.

Jaskier sips at the water, waiting for Geralt to collect his thoughts. He feels lighter inside; not healed, but it’s like the wound inside of him had been infected, and he’s just gone through the painstaking process of draining it, so that it can finally begin to close.

“Thank you for telling me,” Geralt eventually says. “I… haven’t been completely honest with you, either. It’s hard for me to admit it, but I don’t like feeling so—so helpless. I should have been able to protect you.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I feel like I need to stay on guard, all the time.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. I know that.”

“But I think you needed to hear it. And I’ll tell you as often as you need, Geralt. Now, please, will you start sleeping again?”

Geralt nods ruefully. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says softly, standing up. He holds a hand out to pull Geralt up too, who takes it.

And without anything further, they set off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's father draws blood with a needle and Jaskier suffers from severe blood loss. As they escape, Geralt kills several guards and Jaskier is disturbed by the sight. He is taken captive by his father and used as a human shield, and Jaskier kills him. Afterwards Geralt helps him through a breakdown. 
> 
> Geralt doesn't handle his trauma well, and resorts to not sleeping out of paranoia. They fight, and Jaskier has another breakdown, but this time they discuss their trauma.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings! enjoy the final chapter and the promised happy ending!

“You  _ forgot?”  _ Yennefer’s voice is ice cold.

“We had a busy week,” Jaskier protests, but his stomach is still sinking. “The copy we went to get was burned and then, well, everything kind of went to shit.”

“I can’t do the spell without that book. I may be talented, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

“We got everything else! Can’t you just, I don’t know, wing it?”

“Sure, I’ll just wing it, and then after you explode into horrible little pieces, your ghost can explain the situation to Geralt.”

“ _ Please,  _ Yennefer. I need this curse broken,” he begs.

She sighs. “I’ll see what I can do. I make no promises.”

With Geralt’s help, she sets up the ingredients they had managed to gather. The heart-sized ruby is last, and goes in a place of honor on a pedestal within a chalk circle. Jaskier sits in another chalk circle on the other side of the room. He feels like an insect under a magnifying glass, exposed and caught, even though he's fully clothed and free to leave the circle at any time.

“Right. Geralt, by the door,” Yennefer orders. “I need to concentrate.”

Geralt looks displeased, but does as he's told. Jaskier tries not to be nervous as Yennefer closes her eyes and starts chanting in Elder.

He feels a tingling sensation crawl over his skin, like thousands of blades of grass. It slowly escalates, becoming more and more intense, pins and needles, as Yennefer chants louder. The dark liquid in the bowl bubbles, near boiling over.

Wind starts blowing around the room, though Jaskier doesn’t know where it’s coming from. It ruffles through his hair, and he spends a minute to mourn his artfully tousled hairdo.

Just as Jaskier thinks the itching of his skin is going to become unbearable, he feels a  _ snap,  _ like the recoil of a bowstring, and everything stops, the wind dying down.

Yennefer opens her eyes, looking entirely at ease and with not a hair out of place, for all the chaos that the spell had caused.

Jaskier doesn’t dare to hope that the curse has been broken. He doesn’t feel any different, but then, would he really know?

And as he expected, Yennefer confirms it. “I didn’t break the spell, but I can tell you that there’s a condition built into it that will allow you to. I can also tell you why it was cast—your mother wished for something useful from her crying baby.”

“Something useful? What the hell does that mean?” Jaskier scoffs. The idea of wanting a  _ baby  _ to be useful…it rankles him.

“It means that the original caster of the spell transformed your pain into wealth.”

That would make sense. “So how do we break it, then?”

Yennefer grimaces. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t know. That part is hidden too well for even me to see.”

Geralt interjects. “What about the original caster? Can you track her down?”

“No, it’s been too long. All traces of her touch on the magic have faded; now it’s sustaining itself based on Jaskier's energy alone.”

“So, what then? I’m like this forever, unless we can figure out the catch?” Jaskier isn’t panicking. He isn’t.

“Well it certainly won’t be broken by true love’s kiss,” Yennefer snaps. It seems she doesn’t like not knowing any more than they do.

Everyone is silent as they consider the problem before them. Eventually, Jaskier's stomach grumbles, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Right, well, I need to eat if we’re to figure this out.” He slaps his hands on his knees as he pushes himself up. “Where can I find food around here?”

Yennefer directs him to the kitchens, and Geralt trails after him. Yennefer excuses herself to her rooms, saying that she’ll start asking around for ideas from her network of fellow sorcerers.

As Jaskier rummages in the cupboards for food, Geralt leans against the doorway. “Did your mother ever tell you anything about the curse?” he asks.

“No, she didn’t even know about it until I was, hmm, about nine? She knows as much as I do.” Not to mention, he’s still rather peeved at her for bringing the curse upon him in the first place; he’d rather not contact her anytime soon if he can help it.

“Would she know who cast it?”

Jaskier scoffs. “I doubt it. There were more than a hundred magic users at court when I was introduced, as my parents liked to brag.” He takes out a loaf of bread and begins to slice it for sandwiches. He's too tired to actually cook anything tonight.

“Hmm.”

Done with the sandwiches, he puts one on a plate for himself and hands a plate with the other two to Geralt. “I don’t know either,” he sighs. “Let’s just eat and go to bed. I’m tired.”

They sit side by side on a couch in front of the fireplace to eat. Geralt polishes off both of his sandwiches in the time it takes Jaskier to finish one half. 

When he’s done, Geralt takes the plates to the kitchen to wash. It all feels terribly…domestic, sitting together in front of a roaring fire, doing banal chores for each other. By the time Geralt gets back, the warmth and quiet has lulled Jaskier into a doze.

Jaskier opens his eyes to Geralt standing over him. He groans and stretches; he feels comfortable right here, doesn’t want to bother moving to a bed.

“Come on, Jaskier. Don’t you want a bed after so long on the road?”  _ After so long in a dungeon,  _ he tactfully doesn’t say.

“Hmph. But Yen’s couches are so comfortable. Honestly, who did she kill to get this thing?” he asks, pushing himself into a sitting position. He yawns.

He’d thought Geralt would drop the hovering act once they got to Yennefer’s house, but apparently not. Geralt follows him upstairs, but Jaskier really can’t be arsed to get angry about it. He knows that Geralt is feeling justifiably protective, after all, considering what they’ve gone through. And he’s knocked off the whole not-sleeping thing, too, so it’s fine. He can handle some clingy witcher.

Almost as if by habit from sharing a room in inns on the road, Geralt undresses and climbs into bed with Jaskier. He’s certainly not complaining; this way, he can know for sure whether or not Geralt is sleeping, and also, it’s nice to have a warm body at his back. It reminds him that he’s safe, in a warm bed, instead of bound to a cold metal table, hurting all over.

Geralt falls asleep first, and Jaskier falls asleep soon after with a smile on his face.

\--

The days pass with them coming no closer to finding a solution. None of the other mages Yennefer knows have any ideas, nor do they know who might have cast it. Jaskier slowly starts to become worried about never finding the catch. For now, he’s in limbo, enjoying the chance to rest and recuperate at Yennefer’s, but also itching to get back on the road again. However, at the same time, he dreads it; what if someone finds out about his curse again? He doesn’t know what to do; he’s virtually stuck.

On the eighth day, Geralt starts preparing to leave. Jaskier takes it as a sign that their rest is over, and Geralt has either resolved to search for answers elsewhere, or has simply given up—though he desperately hopes not. Geralt isn’t usually one to turn from a soul in need of a curse broken, but then, Jaskier is always a special case, isn’t he.

Jaskier goes out to the stables with his bags and his lute, ready to leave. Except Geralt looks at him strangely from where he sits atop Roach.

“What?” Jaskier asks. “Have I got something on my face?”

Geralt frowns. “You’re not coming with me. I’ve got an errand to run and then I’m coming right back.”

“An errand? What could you need that Yennefer couldn’t simply magic into existence?” Jaskier is utterly baffled. Geralt can be evasive, but he never outright  _ lies. _

Geralt grits his teeth. “I’m going back to Lettenhove.”

“ _ Back to— _ You’re bloody well not going back there after we just left!” he shouts incredulously.

“There’s something I need to do. I’ve already discussed it with Yennefer. She’s agreed to let you stay until I come back.”

“No, absolutely not. Just because she helped us once—well, maybe twice—doesn’t mean she won’t cut off my cock while I’m asleep! I’m coming with you.” He hopes the jab at Yennefer will distract Geralt from his true motive—not letting Geralt return to Lettenhove unaccompanied.

“You’re staying here,” he orders, and oh-ho, if he thinks Jaskier is going to just roll over and obey, he’s got another think coming.

“I’m coming, Geralt,” he snaps. “I… I need this to be over as much as you do.” He shudders at the thought of the manor, it’s true, but he isn’t lying. Whatever business Geralt has there, Jaskier wants to be there for it. He needs the closure. They  _ both  _ do.

Geralt closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. Jaskier waits him out. He’s made a career out of following a witcher, after all; he has more patience than a lot of people think.

“Fine. Go get Yennefer. If you’re coming, she’s coming too,” Geralt eventually says. Jaskier doesn’t see the need for the witch to come along, but then he thinks of Geralt’s sleeplessness.

Jaskier has mostly managed to stamp out his instinctive fear of Yennefer by now, and in the following days on the road, it vanishes entirely. She has a wicked sense of humor and a dry wit, just like him, and he delights in the banter they can pull from each other. And with her there, casting protective spells over them each night as they camp, Geralt actually feels safe enough to let down his guard. If they weren’t headed back to the place of Jaskier’s nightmares, he might actually be enjoying himself on the road.

The manor is exactly as they left it, although things have started to gather dust, and all the remaining food in the kitchen is completely rotted. Geralt leads them through the winding hallways, and Jaskier realizes with a start where they’re headed.

The vault. The place where his father likely stashed all of the gems.

Geralt wrenches the doors open with great effort, revealing heaps of gold and gems. His father seemingly got even richer since he left home, which isn’t surprising, given the state of the rest of the country. He got rich while his citizens starved.

Jaskier is glad he’s dead. Maybe when his cousin takes over, the country will start to heal.

Geralt walks inside the vault and lugs out two chests full of rubies and diamonds. Jaskier supposes his father wouldn’t have had a chance to do anything with them, considering.

“So this is them, then,” Jaskier says when no one else does anything. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

Geralt clenches his jaw. “No. Not when you consider the source.”

“Well? What are you going to do with them?” Yennefer asks Jaskier.

“Wh—me?” He looks back and forth between them. But then he considers—they are technically his inheritance, for all that they had been stolen from him in the first place. But… he doesn’t want them. As much as it pains him—he’s known well the pains of poverty—he doesn’t want anything associated with his father, ever.

“I don’t want them.” It would be natural, perhaps, for him to want them, to keep them as a sign of his victory over his father, evidence of his continued survival. And it’s  _ a lot of fucking money. _ But he never asked for this curse, and he doesn’t want it now.

But Yennefer and Geralt just nod in understanding. 

“Don’t you want them?” Jaskier asks. “I owe you so much, after all. Would’ve spent the rest of my life bleeding out in the basement, if not for you. Toss a coin to your witcher, and all that.” He knows that this can’t even begin to repay his massive debt towards Geralt, but it’s a start. And he’ll finally have earned his keep, for once; he’ll have made himself worth having around. 

Geralt doesn’t seem to see it that way. “You don’t owe me a thing, Jaskier. I don't ever need payment from you. In fact, I’d rather never see another gem from you again, if I can help it.”

Well. That’s unexpected. But Jaskier supposes it makes sense—after all, Geralt has never liked seeing him in pain, has wanted to break the curse since the moment he learned about it. Jaskier’s usefulness has never seemed to matter much, for which he’s grateful. The thought makes him giddy; Geralt’s declaration leaves him feeling lighter inside, overflowing with joy and some unnameable feeling. “Well then, what do we do with them? Can’t just leave them here.”

But Yennefer and Geralt just nod in understanding. “Yennefer?” Geralt asks. “Will you do the honors?”

“The honors of what?” Jaskier asks, but nobody hears him over the ear-shattering sound of Yennefer’s magic. It’s like an explosion in reverse, like a roaring fire being snuffed out in one second. The gems shatter and then dissolve into nothing, and then the chests stand empty as if nothing had ever filled them.

They’re gone, forever, and Jaskier still feels that lightness inside of him, growing, growing. And lighter on the outside, too, now that he thinks about it—it feels like he’s just taken off a heavy winter coat he didn’t know he was wearing.

He stumbles backwards as the sensation becomes more intense—holy shit, are his hands  _ glowing?  _ He looks down and sees that it’s not just his hands, it’s his entire body—everything is glowing brightly, too brightly, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

What is going on? He vaguely hears Geralt shouting something, Yennefer shouting back. His skin is tingling, itching,  _ burning— _

He falls unconscious.

\--

Jaskier is thirty-four years old when his curse is lifted.

He opens his eyes and sees…stubble? White hair? His brain fills in the blanks—Geralt is leaning over him, but looking up at something else. Jaskier’s head is cradled in his lap, two large hands cupping his cheeks. Geralt doesn’t seem to have noticed that he’s awake; neither has Yennefer, who’s looking increasingly irritated as Geralt yells at her.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Why did he collapse like that?”

“I  _ don’t know,  _ Geralt, and we won’t know until he wakes up.”

“Lucky thing he’s awake, then,” Jaskier interrupts. Geralt’s hands tighten briefly over his face, his gaze jumping to meet Jaskier’s.

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks.

“Fine. My knees hurt a bit.”

“That’s from where you fell on them when you fainted,” Yennefer cuts in. “How else do you feel? Anything different?”

“Umm…” Now that he thinks about it, he does still feel that lightness, that  _ lack  _ of something he’s felt his entire life. “It does feel different. It’s like… I was wearing a coat before, but not anymore. If that makes sense?”

Yennefer nods, looking pensive. “Sit up for me. I want to check something.”

Geralt helps him sit up with a hand on his back, though he could have managed just fine on his own. He keeps it there as Yennefer closes her eyes, probably doing something witchy. Jaskier tries not to fidget.

She opens her eyes again after a few seconds, a small smile on her lips. “It’s gone. Your curse is broken, Jaskier.”

He can’t believe it. He  _ actually  _ can’t believe it. After so long living in fear of discovery, after all the pain he’s been through (and dragged Geralt into) because of it… he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So he settles for just sitting there blankly.

“You’re sure?” he hears Geralt ask.

“Of course I’m sure,” she retorts, but there’s no heat to it. “Now, I believe my end of our deal is fulfilled. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Every minute I spend here makes my skin crawl.”

“Thank you, Yennefer.”

“You’re welcome. Can I portal you out of here? Anywhere you want to go.”

He feels Geralt shudder behind him. “I hate portals.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you again to collect my favors from you.” And there’s a  _ whoosh  _ of air as a portal opens up in front of her. She steps through it and then it’s just the two of them.

“Jaskier? You alright?” Geralt asks, close to his ear. It snaps him out of his reverie.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just…”

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly. Yennefer had the right idea, he thinks; he wants to get out of this cursed place. He walks outside with Geralt trailing after him, feeling adrift.

“So… what now?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier doesn’t know what he means. Now as in, immediately? Or now as in, he’s asking whether Jaskier will still travel with him? Because he definitely will; Geralt isn’t getting rid of him that easily.

“Come to the coast with me,” he blurts out. He has an overwhelming urge to see the sea right now, to be reminded of his place in the world. “It’s not far from here, maybe ten minutes’ walk.”

The ocean off the coast of Kerack is grey and choppy about ninety percent of the time. Today, though, as if reflecting the joyous occasion, it’s a calm turquoise, waves lapping gently at the shore. Jaskier pulls off his boots and rolls up his trousers, wading out into the ocean. To his surprise, Geralt joins him.

They stand there quietly for a few minutes. Jaskier can feel the salt spray against his cheeks, making his face damp.

“Jaskier? What’s wrong?” Geralt asks. With that, Jaskier realizes that it isn’t sea spray on his cheeks; he’s silently crying.

He flounders for a second, trying to find the words to describe what he's feeling. “Nothing’s wrong,” he chokes out. “I’m just so  _ happy,”  _ and he realizes that it’s true, that the nebulous feeling inside of him is pure, unrestrained joy.

Geralt hums contentedly. Jaskier thought he was sick of crying, but this, crying tears of elation, isn’t so bad. It’s freeing, like he's shedding the weight of a past life, wiping the slate clean.

“You want to know what I think?” he says, much later, when his toes have started to prune up.

“Hmm?”

“I think that to break the curse, we needed the opposite of what caused it. I think that by seeing me as a person, instead of as something  _ useful,  _ you broke it. You knew about my curse, but never once did you ask to benefit from it. You could have been rich beyond belief, Geralt. But you never wanted it; you just wanted the curse gone.”

“I was just doing the decent thing.”

“And you were the  _ first person to do so.  _ You can’t imagine how much that means to me.”

Geralt frowns. “I’m sorry you’ve been mistreated like that your whole life. And I’m sorry it took so long to break it.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be sorry, you saved me. Thank you.” Acting on impulse, he grabs Geralt’s hand, slotting their fingers together.

Geralt looks down, surprised, but doesn’t let go. He squeezes his hand, and they’re quiet for another moment.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” he suddenly blurts out. “For the winter.”

Fuck, Jaskier’s going to start crying again. He knows how much Kaer Morhen means to Geralt, to all the wolf witchers. He knows the kind of trust Geralt is showing him right now. “Do you… do you really mean that?” he asks, eyes shining.

“Yes. I want you there.”

Jaskier laughs, turning to fully face Geralt. “I’d love to,” he promises. And again, acting on impulse, he leans forward to capture Geralt’s lips with his own. It’s a brief kiss, no more than a peck, and he pulls away right after, glancing up through his lashes to judge Geralt’s reaction.

Geralt looks stunned. For a split second, Jaskier thinks he’s read Geralt wrong, that he’s made a grave mistake. Apologies fly to his lips, ready to be uttered in a second.

He doesn’t need them. Geralt lets go of his hand, but only so he can grab Jaskier’s face with both hands and bring him in for a deep kiss.

Jaskier pants for air when they finally break away, head spinning from the intensity of the kiss. Geralt is full-on smiling, a precious sight, and Jaskier grins in response. The happiness inside of him feels like fizzing champagne bubbles, about to burst out of him.

“Now let’s go. My feet are going to fall off from the cold,” Geralt says, tugging Jaskier back to dry land.

“Really, all that tramping about in swamps, but you can’t stand a little ocean water?” Jaskier asks, laughing.

“Not in autumn, I can’t. And I bet you can’t for much longer, either,” Geralt says, looking pointedly at Jaskier’s now-blue toes.

“You underestimate me! But fine, I guess for your sake, we should get out,” Jaskier mock-sighs. They walk barefoot back to the manor, where Roach is patiently waiting for them.

“Where to next?” Jaskier asks, pulling his boots back on.

“Anywhere,” Geralt answers. And it’s true. He’s free to do whatever he wants.

“Sounds good to me.” He shoulders his lute, Geralt hops on Roach, and they set off, the world theirs to explore, without a gem in sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment, if you liked it! Follow me on [tumblr,](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr.com) if you like!


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